


Twirl Three Notes and Make a Star

by inexplicifics



Series: The Accidental Warlord and His Pack [6]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, And Gets One, Cuddling & Snuggling, Eskel needs a hug, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Kaer Morhen's Fanon Hot Springs (The Witcher), Loyalty, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Polyamory Negotiations, Requited Unrequited Love, Singing, Timeline What Timeline, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:55:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23878012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics
Summary: The Warlord of the North receives an invitation to the elven summer festival, and Geralt sends Jaskier, Eskel, and Ciri (and more than a dozen overprotective Witchers) off to be diplomatic.Or: Eskel finally gets to take a vacation. If you can call riding herd on Jaskierandthe little menace a vacation.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Eskel, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Accidental Warlord and His Pack [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683661
Comments: 1045
Kudos: 4936
Collections: Jaskier or Geralt/others (with or w/out eachother), Just.... So cute...





	1. Chapter 1

Jaskier reads the letter through again and puts it down, tapping his fingers against the parchment thoughtfully.

His role on the Warlord’s Council doesn’t really have a _title_ , because Witchers don’t _do_ titles, but he’s basically ended up in charge of all the diplomatic correspondence from other countries. Thankfully, it’s not a particularly onerous workload, which is a blessing given that he’s also court bard and tutor to the princess and - _oh right_ \- Consort to the Warlord, which isn’t so much a _job_ as an excuse for Geralt to carry him off and ravish him gloriously at irregular but frequent intervals.

Not that Jaskier doesn’t do his own fair share of ravishing, of course.

In any case, mostly what being in charge of diplomatic correspondence means is that once or twice a month, a letter arrives at Kaer Morhen full of diplomatic doublespeak and courtly folderol that all boils down to, _Please please please don’t conquer us, we’re holding to the treaties, please accept our tribute and leave us alone_ , and Jaskier goes and checks with Eskel to see if they’ve gotten any reports that the monarch in question _isn’t_ holding to the treaties, and takes a look at the tribute, and - every time so far, at least - writes a letter in response that’s much _less_ full of fluff and pomp and says fairly bluntly, _Since you are holding to the treaties, your tribute is accepted and the Warlord will not be conquering your country at this time_.

He might get a little _too_ much pleasure out of writing the ones to King Vizimir of Redania, or to the idiot king of Temeria, but that’s neither here nor there.

This letter isn’t the same sort of thing at all. It should probably have gone to Eskel, who deals with all the internal reports from across the Warlord’s holdings that aren’t about monsters or bandits or other dangers - all the boring important things like grain harvests and roads washed out and such - but it looked diplomatic, so it came to Jaskier.

It’s an invitation, from Filavandrel aen Fidhail, for representatives of the White Wolf to attend the summer festival which the elves who live under the White Wolf’s protection will be throwing on the plains below Ban Ard. Jaskier is extremely grateful that it has been sent _well_ ahead of time: it’s only just now spring, just barely starting to be warm enough to travel safely.

That gives him plenty of time to argue with his darling wolves, because this is _exactly_ the sort of opportunity he’s been looking for: a good reason to bring Ciri out of Kaer Morhen, to see how the people of her father’s lands live. _With_ , naturally, an escort of heavily-armed and extremely overprotective Witchers. He’s not a _fool_.

*

To Jaskier’s vast surprise, when he brings the letter to the rest of the Council, there is not an immediate wave of protest. Vesemir frowns, but Vesemir frowns a lot. Yen taps her fingers against her lips thoughtfully. Eskel tugs the letter over to read it himself. And Geralt closes his eyes, as he does when he needs to think something through carefully. But none of them actually _object_.

“So I was thinking,” Jaskier says, “Ciri and I and our escort could leave about a month ahead of time and travel down at a nice easy pace, see the towns along the way, talk to people, let her get a bit of a taste for the outside world, and then Geralt could portal down to meet us at the festival for a day or so, and then we could come back either by portal or, if we’re feeling like it, by wandering back up.”

“Ciri _would_ enjoy it,” Yen says. “I’ve been to an elven summer festival before; it’s quite delightful. Lots of food and music and dancing.”

“The elves _are_ loyal to the Wolf,” Vesemir rumbles, almost reluctantly. They were some of the Wolf’s first true supporters, Jaskier knows, drawn to his lands by his promise that nonhumans would be fully equal, protected from the sort of violent bigotry that plagues so many other countries - or did, before the promise of the Wolf’s vengeance became enough of a threat for most other monarchs to crack down on their own people in an effort to avoid drawing the Wolf’s anger.

“It’s a good idea, and Eskel should go with you,” Geralt says, surprising everyone. All eyes turn to him, and he raises a hand and begins to tick reasons off on his fingers. “Ciri should see more of the world. Jaskier wants to travel. Eskel needs a break.” Eskel looks a bit startled, and Geralt slants his second-in-command a small smile. “Work yourself to the bone for me, don’t think I don’t know it. Elves will appreciate the courtesy. And -” he grimaces. “Trials are coming up. Don’t want Ciri here for that.”

Eskel and Vesemir nod. Yen nods _harder_.

“Well then,” Jaskier says. “That’s...settled?”

Geralt nods.

“Huh,” Eskel says. “Well. Alright. I won’t refuse a break.” He grins. “Though I’m not sure riding herd on the little menace _and_ your bard for a month counts as a _break_ , Wolf.”

“Hm,” says Geralt, looking smug.

*

Jaskier follows Eskel as the Council disperses. “Planning?” Eskel asks, slinging an arm over his shoulders. “We need to pick who else is coming. At least ten Witchers, I’m thinking.”

“I leave the numbers up to you,” Jaskier says, grinning. “ _I_ will be busy writing some new songs for this festival. Rhyming anything with ‘Filavandrel’ is going to be an interesting challenge.” Eskel chuckles. “But what I _really_ wanted to ask was, what are the Trials?”

Eskel sighs, and says nothing until they reach Jaskier’s rooms and the moderate privacy thereof. Jaskier doesn’t push. Witchers will talk when they talk, and if Eskel won’t tell him, he’ll ask Lambert.

Eskel leans against the wall once they’re in Jaskier’s sitting room and says, “The Trials are how boys become Witchers. They’re...not pleasant.”

“I had figured,” Jaskier says. “ _How_ unpleasant are we talking, that Geralt doesn’t want Ciri here for them?”

Eskel grimaces. “Well, used to be, the survival rate was three in ten. Our year, four of us lived: me, Geralt, Gweld, and Gascaden. Good year for G’s, I guess.” His snort of amusement is very bitter.

“Three in _ten_?” Jaskier says, feeling rather ill.

“The mutagens are not...gentle,” Eskel says.

“Wait, you said _used to be_ ,” Jaskier says. “What changed?”

“Triss,” Eskel says, smiling more genuinely now. “That woman could retire right now and never do _anything_ else, and every Witcher in the world would still count her the finest potions maker alive.”

“She changed the mutagens?”

“No - they have to be that strong to work.” Eskel’s smile grows crooked and wry. “ _We’d_ always thought the only way to possibly cut the death rate was to change the mutagens, and since we couldn’t do that, we gave up. _She_ came at it from the other direction. Made up an entirely new potion. We give it to the boys when they’re first brought in. If it makes them ill, then they won’t be able to bear the mutagens, and we find someplace else for them.”

“So now all the trainees survive?” Jaskier asks, eyes wide. That’s _amazing_ \- he’s going to have to hug Triss very hard for this.

“Almost all,” Eskel says. “There’s - the Trials are dangerous even after the mutagens. But almost all. It’s much, much better than it was.”

“I am so glad,” Jaskier says. “So why does Geralt want Ciri gone during the Trials?”

Eskel grimaces. “They survive,” he says softly. “But you can hear the screams everywhere in the keep. We’ve taken her out camping, the last couple of times. Nobody wants her hearing that. It’s...bad.”

_You can hear the screams everywhere in the keep_. Sweet Melitele. _Jaskier_ doesn’t want to be here for that. He doesn’t interact much with the Witcher trainees - they’re kept busy by their trainers - but imagining _anyone_ screaming loud enough to echo through the halls of Kaer Morhen - ugh, _no_.

“Right,” he says. “That seems like a good reason to get Ciri out of the keep, yes. And we should probably tell Lambert to take Milena down into town for a few days, too - I don’t think she’d want to come rough it for a _month_ , though she should probably come to the festival to help Ciri with formal clothing, but she _certainly_ won’t want to be here during the Trials...Come to think of it, I don’t recall hearing anything like that in the last couple of years.”

Eskel nods. “Every three years, now. We aren’t making many new Witchers anymore. And good thought: Lambert _hates_ the Trials. He won’t leave for himself, but he will for Milena.”

“I see,” Jaskier says, and decides that that’s enough of _that_ particular dark topic. “So! Which Witchers were you thinking of bringing?”

“It would probably be diplomatic to have a couple from each School,” Eskel says, and Jaskier pulls a sheet of scrap parchment over and starts jotting down ideas as Eskel ponders temperaments and skill levels aloud.

*

Jaskier’s inability to leave things alone will probably get him into trouble one of these days, but he’s in a keep full of overprotective Witchers; it can’t be _that_ much trouble. And in any case he’s pretty sure Vesemir likes him, even if the old Witcher is quiet about it.

They don’t talk much, though, outside of council meetings, so it’s unusual for Jaskier to hunt him down. Vesemir is in the Warlord’s office, reading a long parchment that has him frowning magisterially, and looks almost relieved to be interrupted.

Jaskier picks a chair across the wide table from him. Vesemir puts down his parchment and gives Jaskier a brief nod and a raised eyebrow, inviting him to speak.

“So I asked Eskel about the Trials,” Jaskier says bluntly. Vesemir nods. “And I know it’s not really any of my business, but now I have to ask: how the hell are the kids _chosen_?”

Vesemir grunts - Jaskier wonders if he’s where Geralt gets it, sometimes. “Suppose it _is_ your business, Consort,” he says after a moment. “They used to be orphans, or children of surprise, or unwanted children. People used to leave ‘em for the Witchers.” He grimaces. “Last...five, six years or so, though, people have started to _offer_ their kids.”

“Ah,” Jaskier says. “Because being a Witcher has become a...well, a way to gain status, I suppose.”

Vesemir shakes his head, looking baffled.

“Do you take them? The offered children?”

Vesemir sighs and rubs a hand over his grey beard. “No. Maybe we would’ve, before, when we lost seven in ten to the Trials, but we’ve...well, we’ve been able to get a little pickier, since Triss got clever and made the testing potion.”

“I _will_ be talking to people on the way down to the festival, and some of them are going to ask,” Jaskier says when Vesemir goes silent. “Do you really want me to let Letho tell people how you pick new Witchers?”

Vesemir winces. “ _Vicious_ little bard,” he says, sounding amused. “Alright. We don’t take ‘em if they’re offered by their families.” He grimaces. “Well. A Witcher has to be a _Witcher_ , first and last and everything in between. We can’t…” He pauses, frowns, sighs. “Well. I _used_ to say we can’t interfere in politics, but nowadays we hardly do anything else. But Witchers’ loyalty needs to be to their School and their duty, and now to Geralt. If they’re loyal to their families - especially _noble_ families -”

“Ah,” Jaskier says, wincing. The idea of ambitious noble sons with the abilities that Witchers have - the sorts of civil wars that could break out if the Witchers ever decided to take against each _other_ \- “Yes, I can see the trouble. So you don’t take them from families.”

Vesemir nods. “These days, we only take orphans. No older than five, healthy and reasonably intelligent, not of noble blood, capable of drinking the testing potion without becoming ill. Most of them forget where they come from well before they ever take the Trials.”

Jaskier grimaces. But it does make sense. _A Witcher has to be a Witcher, first and last and everything in between_. They can form bonds _here_ , in Kaer Morhen, but a Witcher with ties to the outside world...no. Not if they want to keep the Witchers united behind Geralt, loyal to the White Wolf. And even if a noble child did forget his family, their family wouldn’t forget _them_ , not in the fifteen years of training; as soon as he left Kaer Morhen there’d be messages waiting for him. So no, they can’t take noble children, ever, at all.

“So if anyone asks me if their son can become a Witcher,” he prompts gently.

“Even if we _did_ take wanted sons, the answer’d be no, just because we aren’t taking many at all anymore,” Vesemir says. “Maybe two or three a year for each School. We aren’t _losing_ as many, is the thing. Used to be, when Witchers walked the Path alone, we lost a few every year, to monsters or foul play - more among the youngest. We lost half of each year’s new Witchers, most of the time. An old Witcher is one who _survived_ long enough to get old.” Jaskier nods, looking at the grey of Vesemir’s beard and hair. There are some stories there.

“But now we send them out by twos and threes,” Vesemir continues, “and we haven’t lost a Witcher except in _war_ in a decade. So we agreed, all the heads of the Schools, that we daren’t become too numerous. We’ll train enough to replace our dead, and maybe a few more. That’s all.”

“Sensible,” Jaskier says, nodding. “If anyone asks, then, I’ll tell them no, their sons cannot become Witchers.”

Vesemir nods. “Good. There are enough orphans in the White Wolf’s lands; we do not need to take children from their families.”

Jaskier thinks about that for a while, and sighs, and rubs his forehead. “Alright, I’m going to say something that’s going to sound really, really cold-blooded,” he says. “And if you think it a good idea, I’d be obliged if _you’d_ suggest it to Geralt.”

“Go on,” Vesemir says warily.

“The White Wolf should sponsor orphanages in half a dozen major cities,” Jaskier says bluntly. “First because it’s a good thing to do - hells, get the local nobility to pay for it, and it won’t even eat into the keep’s budget. But second because then the Witchers can visit, every so often, and…” he trails off as Vesemir nods.

“And find any likely-looking lads, and test them, and bring the best of them back to Kaer Morhen,” he finishes. “Huh.” He eyes Jaskier with a faint air of confusion. “That _is_ a bit cold-blooded. Sensible, though. I’ll suggest it.”

Jaskier smiles at him, a little wanly. “Nobles learn to be cold-blooded,” he says, and stands. “I much prefer being a bard.”

Vesemir nods. “You’re better at being a bard,” he offers. “Founding orphanages isn’t quite as cold-blooded as it could be, even with an ulterior motive.”

Jaskier huffs a laugh. “Well, that’s me, bad at being a properly cold-blooded noble asshole.”

“So it is,” Vesemir says. “Pretty good consort, though.” He nods again, and picks up the parchment he was reading when Jaskier interrupted.

Jaskier leaves with a slightly unexpected warmth in his chest.

*

The good thing about the double-wide chair for the Warlord and his Consort is that Jaskier gets to sit tucked up against Geralt’s side, warm and safe and comfortable and happy.

The _bad_ thing about it is that it makes it much harder to get up and _sing_ when Geralt has an arm around his waist and is contentedly nuzzling his hair.

“Ciri, darling, would you mind distracting your father?” he asks, leaning forward to look around Geralt at her.

Ciri giggles at him. “But he’s so happy!” she says. Geralt hums in amusement and kisses the arch of Jaskier’s ear.

“Little menace,” Jaskier grumbles, making Ciri laugh harder. Yen is watching the whole thing with an expression that suggests that she _would_ be laughing her head off if she ever showed that much amusement in public. “Fine. Eskel? A little help?”

“But how could I betray my liege lord so terribly?” Eskel asks, smirking. “I could never do such a thing.”

“You are all _dreadful_ and I don’t know why I love you,” Jaskier says, very pleased at the laughter this produces. “Geralt. Darling. Love of my life, wolf of my dreams, glorious holder of my heart - I would _very much_ like to perform this new ballad tonight. Let me up?”

“Cost you a kiss,” Geralt rumbles.

“Highway robbery,” Jaskier declares, and turns to kiss Geralt as thoroughly as he ever dares in public.

“Hm,” says Geralt, finally, looking so contented and relaxed that Jaskier almost says _fuck it_ to performing the new ballad and drags his beloved off to bed. “Alright.” He lets go of Jaskier, smile lurking around the corners of his mouth, and Jaskier takes a moment to be wryly grateful for the fact that every Witcher in the hall can _smell_ how hungry he is for his wolf, so there’s no point in awkward adjusting of trousers to try to conceal it _anyhow_ , and grabs his lute.

The hush that falls over the hall is, as always, immensely flattering. “I have a new one for you tonight,” he announces. “This is _The Crossing of the Dyphne_.”

The king of Aedirn had burned all the bridges across the Dyphne when he heard the Witchers were coming for him, and lined the southern bank with archers. This had, of course, not stopped the Witchers, but it had been a hard battle, and a bloody one. Jaskier has gotten the story from eight or ten different people, in an effort to keep it as accurate as possible, and now he sings the praises of the Witchers who swam a spring-flooded river _underwater_ and emerged to cause enough havoc on the bank to give their fellows time to cross.

One of them, naturally, was Geralt, but Jaskier was very careful while writing this song to give equal honors to the others who performed the same impossible feat, naming them and praising them individually. He can see them puffing up with the praise, their fellows clapping them on the back and cheering when they’re named, and when he turns to sing to the high table again, Geralt gives him a look of such warm approval that he feels like he’s walking on air.

“... _for the Dyphne’s banks ran red that night, but the river now runs clear!_ ” he finishes, and takes his bow, and retreats back to Geralt’s side to the sound of happy cheers.

“It’s good,” Eskel says as Geralt tugs Jaskier back down into their chair. “Makes it sound a lot simpler than it was, though.”

“Yes, well,” Jaskier shrugs. “It’s a ballad, not a history text.” Several Witchers have gotten up and started a stomping dance which requires no music, and Jaskier has to raise his voice a bit to be heard as more and more Witchers join in. “Though I suppose we should see about _getting_ a historian in - we need someone to write this all up properly. Unless there’s a Witcher historian? _Someone_ wrote all those books in your library.”

“Witchers aren’t very literary,” Eskel says thoughtfully. “I could ask around, though; maybe there’s someone who’s always wanted to write a book.”

“Hmph,” says Geralt, against the back of Jaskier’s neck.

“If someone doesn’t write it _here_ , then the only histories of the Warlord will be from your enemies,” Jaskier says softly, leaning back into Geralt’s warm strength. “You need someone to write _your_ side of the story, and it’s best if they do it under your eyes, so you can make sure it’s accurate.”

“Hmph,” says Geralt again, but in tones of grumpy agreement. Jaskier catches Eskel’s eye and grins.

“A bard, a lady-in-waiting, now a historian,” Eskel teases. “We’ll have a proper court here soon.”

“Not enough backstabbing and conniving,” Jaskier objects. “Really just a _scandalous_ lack of illicit love affairs, too.”

Eskel chuckles and glances down the table, and Jaskier turns to see that Lambert has moved to sit in Milena’s chair, with Milena on his lap, and has his chin hooked over her shoulder and a _very_ smug look on his face, while Milena attempts to hold a conversation with Triss and Ciri.

“Illicit, I said,” Jaskier points out. “That’s about as far from illicit as you can get. I think they’re snugglier than _we_ are.” Geralt rumbles and tugs Jaskier closer, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck, and Jaskier casts his eyes to the ceiling as dramatically as he can, earning another laugh from Eskel. “It isn’t a _competition_ , my wolf.”

“Wolf’s always been a bit competitive,” Eskel observes mildly, leaning back in his chair and grinning at Jaskier with all his teeth.

“You are all _ridiculous_ ,” Jaskier informs them, and then sighs. “And of course _my_ wolf is the cuddliest.”

“Hm,” says Geralt, very smug. Eskel manages to keep a straight face for all of three seconds before putting his head back and _guffawing_.

Jaskier beams with pride. He likes making Eskel laugh; the man has so much on his plate, and works himself so hard to keep everything running smoothly, and is such a good friend to Geralt and to Jaskier himself, a dearer-than-uncle to Ciri, in so many ways the steady bedrock of the Kaer Morhen court. He deserves any moments of joy Jaskier can provide.

And also, as Jaskier has thought more than once over the past several months, he’s very handsome when he’s happy.

There’s no harm in _looking_ , after all.

*

Geralt tucks the blanket a little more securely around Ciri and stands up, and Jaskier pinches out the candle on the bedside table and lets Geralt wrap an arm around his waist and guide him out of the room in the near-total darkness.

“Thank you for agreeing to let me take Ciri on a bit of an adventure,” he says quietly as they make their way down the stairs.

“Can’t cage my lark,” Geralt replies. “Or my cub.”

“True. But still; I’ll miss you, and I know you’ll miss me, so thank you for not being grumpy about it.”

“Hm,” Geralt says, and kisses him gently. “I’ll be grumpy when you’re gone.”

“Oh dear, poor Yen,” Jaskier says, smothering a grin. “I’ll have to bring her back a case of elven wine to apologize for leaving her here with you.”

“Very wise,” Geralt says, and opens the door to his rooms for Jaskier like a gentleman. He even waits for Jaskier to set his lute down _and_ get all his clothing off before he pounces.

Jaskier ends up on his back on the bed, pinned under at least two hundred pounds of Witcher, with Geralt’s tongue halfway down his throat. He kisses back just as enthusiastically, winding his arms and legs around his lover and getting a hand tangled in Geralt’s gorgeous hair. Geralt growls and breaks the kiss to bite his way down Jaskier’s throat, and Jaskier makes happy sounds and wriggles as much as he can and generally does his best to encourage his wolf to fucking _devour_ him already.

Which Geralt obligingly _does_. Almost a year they’ve been lovers, and Jaskier is still regularly astounded by how fucking _good_ it is between them. It helps, of course, that Geralt is both the handsomest man he’s ever laid eyes on _and_ the best endowed, and moreover knows exactly how to _use_ all the gifts which nature and Witcher mutagens have bestowed upon him -

At which point Geralt growls against his throat and slides two blunt, oil-slick fingers deep into him, and Jaskier entirely loses his train of thought. “ _Fuck_ ,” he yelps, and Geralt chuckles.

“That _is_ the idea, yes,” he murmurs, and Jaskier gasps a laugh that turns almost instantly into a moan. Witchers have very good hands. Yes. Strong. _Clever_. And - and that other thing. Oh right. _Dextrous_.

Geralt is still chuckling, and Jaskier suspects he may have been babbling most of that aloud, but that’s alright. He’s said sillier things in their bed, and Geralt _likes_ his babble. Likes his voice. He’s said so, out loud in _words_ even.

“Little lark,” Geralt rumbles, and kisses Jaskier. The noise in the room goes down substantially. Ah. Jaskier’s been talking the whole time, hasn’t he? Talking and moaning and really he defies _anyone_ to be quiet and dignified with three of the White Wolf’s fingers buried deep in their ass, even leaving aside the glorious string of love-bites and the low rumbling happy growls that reverberate from Geralt’s deep chest.

“You know the best way to get me to be quiet is to fuck me properly, right?” he murmurs in Geralt’s ear.

Geralt laughs. “No, it isn’t,” he says, and replaces his fingers with his glorious prick. “Sing for me, little lark.”

“Alright, no, it really _isn’t_ ,” Jaskier admits, with the last few bits of coherence left to him before Geralt fucks him into a beautifully inarticulate moaning mess.

Altogether Jaskier’s favorite way to spend an evening, bar none.

Some time later, very pleased with the world and more than half asleep, Jaskier cards his fingers through Geralt’s hair, the heavy weight of Geralt’s head a familiar comfort on his chest, and finds himself rambling again: fragments of possible song lyrics, anecdotes about the day, whatever comes into his head.

He doesn’t quite realize where his thoughts have gone until he finds himself saying, “I know you and Yen had a thing a while back - that must have been a beautiful disaster, like a forest fire -” Geralt hums in amused agreement - “but now I can’t help wondering who else might have been lucky enough to share your bed. There are so many options, and all of them are _gorgeous_ , seriously how is everyone in Kaer Morhen so attractive, it’s quite distracting -”

Geralt makes a rumbly noise of amusement or possibly annoyance, and Jaskier laughs and scritches his fingers against Geralt’s scalp a little more firmly. Geralt subsides into contented silence again. “Hm,” Jaskier says, “not Lambert, I’m fairly sure he’s not interested in men, maybe Gweld? Oh, that would be pretty, there’s something in that, the red wolf and the white - oh, don’t growl at me, I won’t _actually_ write it, or if I do I won’t _play_ it for anyone, what do you take me for -”

“We were all boys together,” Geralt says, and Jaskier shuts his mouth, because Geralt in the mood to actually tell a _story_ , spare and bare-bones as it may be, is not to be interrupted. “Me and Gweld and Gascaden and Eskel. Clovis the year behind us. Others, a little older, a little younger. Most of them dead now. Trials at thirteen, but we train until we’re twenty at least. So yes, we all - shared beds. Bunch of young Witchers, all hormones and too much energy.” He shrugs. “Then we went on the Path.”

Jaskier blinks back tears. “And it killed most of you, until you rallied the Witchers and decided to change the world,” he fills in. Geralt hums agreement.

“Huh,” Jaskier says. “That wasn’t nearly as entertainingly full of sexual hijinks as I was hoping it would be. I’m sorry.”

Geralt lifts his head long enough to kiss Jaskier gently, and snuggles against him again with a soft comforting sound.

“Wait,” Jaskier says, “does that mean nobody but _Yen_ since you started being the Warlord?”

“Can’t fuck someone under my command,” Geralt points out. “Not ethical.”

“Huh, I suppose it isn’t,” Jaskier says. “And that _does_ basically limit you to someone completely outside the military structure - like, oh, _me_ , or Yen for that matter - or someone who has enough power that it’s _not_ completely unethical to proposition them, which narrows it to essentially your Council, which is mostly me and Yen again, and Vesemir, which, _no_ , he’s fine and all but he’s basically your _father_ , and - well. Um. Eskel.”

“Hm,” Geralt agrees. “He’s never asked, not since we went on the Path.”

Jaskier rolls that idea around in his head for a while. Eskel and Geralt are absurdly well-matched: dark hair and light, amber eyes and gold, nearly the same height, similar in feature and build, and honestly Jaskier doesn’t mind the scars that carve their way down Eskel’s cheek, not anymore. They mean he _lived_ , just like every scar on Geralt’s body does, and _that_ means they are beautiful. They’d be quite lovely together.

_We’re just keeping you safe between us_ , Eskel said, months ago when Jaskier first became Consort and moved another chair up the table. And _there’s_ a mental image that Jaskier could happily spend a while with. He is _definitely_ greedy enough to desire _two_ handsome Witchers keeping him _safe_ between them, especially when Geralt is _magnificent_ and Eskel isn’t far from it himself.

“Thinking too loud,” Geralt says, stroking a hand down Jaskier’s side like he’s gentling a horse, firm and soothing. “ _Sleep_ , little lark. Unless you _want_ me to have you again.”

Jaskier squirms a little, considering that offer carefully, but he _will_ be sorer than is pleasant if they go another round tonight. “Sleep,” he decides reluctantly. “But I’m taking you up on that tomorrow.”

“And people say _Witchers_ are insatiable,” Geralt murmurs, voice full of amusement, and wraps himself a little more tightly around Jaskier, and flicks a finger to blow out the candles.

There’s a long moment of silence, and then Jaskier murmurs, “But if he did ask?”

“Hm,” says Geralt, and is silent so long Jaskier thinks that’s all he’s going to get. Then, finally, so softly it’s barely a breath: “I’d say yes.”

Jaskier closes his eyes and lets himself drift off with his hands in his Witcher’s hair and his heart full to overflowing.


	2. Chapter 2

If anyone had told Eskel, two decades ago when the Warlord of the North was a phrase no one had even dreamed could exist, that he would consider leading thirteen Witchers, a bard, and a nearly-eleven-year-old girl on a monthlong jaunt to be a _vacation_ , he would have laughed in their face and then taken them to see a healer for the obvious brain damage.

Today, looking at their little caravan, he thinks that this coming month may well prove to be the least stressful few weeks he’s had in _years_. He wouldn’t set down his duties as Geralt’s right hand and most trusted advisor for an endless sack of gold and the promise of three perfect wishes, but he will admit, at least in the privacy of his own thoughts, that it’s a _lot_ to carry.

Less now, since Jaskier came. The bard picks up a _lot_ of the duties that Eskel used to try - with distinctly mixed success - to handle himself. He’s far, far better at political maneuvering and deciphering diplomatic doublespeak than Eskel will _ever_ be, and his songs have accelerated the acceptance of the White Wolf and the Witchers as _protectors_ rather than monsters _far_ beyond Eskel’s wildest imaginings. On the rare occasions Eskel gets to go out on the Path, these days, he’s greeted not with fear and scorn but with the chorus of the _Ode to Witchers_ or _The Wolf with Amber Eyes_ \- _his_ song, which left him speechless for a full hour the first night Jaskier sang it - and people smile at him and thank him for his aid instead of driving him from town with stones and curses. All the other Witchers report the same things from _their_ ventures out into the Warlord’s lands. It’s so incomprehensibly wonderful a change from the way things _used_ to be that Eskel doesn’t think any of them will ever be able to properly articulate it.

There’s a _reason_ an entire keep full of Witchers would cheerfully kill or die for their bard.

And he’s been good - _so_ good - for Geralt. Eskel knows that being the Warlord is not something Geralt ever truly _wanted_ , but a duty he picked up because saving single people or tiny villages piecemeal, one at a time, only to see them threatened again and again, and by _humans_ rather than monstrous beasts, was no longer enough. Geralt has a heart big enough to want to save the whole damn world, and Eskel will be at his side helping him do so until one of them dies or all the monsters in the world have been eradicated.

Which latter isn’t likely to happen, but a man can dream.

But Geralt’s huge heart has been hurting for a long, long time, and getting Ciri only helped so much. Geralt, more than any other Witcher, took the cruel words and general scorn of the world to heart, because he, more than any of the rest of them, wants so, so badly to be _loved_. To be the absolute center of someone’s life, their lodestone and their shelter.

Jaskier gave him that, and for that, Eskel will be grateful to the bard for the rest of his life. Jaskier _adores_ Geralt. It’s obvious in his scent, in his songs, in the way he turns towards Geralt like a flower towards the sun. He’s _overwhelming_ , so much personality and so much _life_ crammed into one small human, and he turns all of that overwhelming attention on _Geralt_ , and Geralt soaks it all up like a sponge taking in water, and _flourishes_.

Eskel’s not sure he could deal with that focused on _him_ all the time, actually. Jaskier may be Witcher catmint - beauty, courage, and talent; the combination is _damnably_ appealing - but he’s also _exhausting_. He makes Geralt happy, though, and for that alone Eskel would adore Jaskier. That the bard is also funny and kind and surprisingly vicious and clever, good with the cub, and a remarkably good friend is just icing on an already tasty cake.

Of course, now Eskel gets to deal with a Jaskier who _doesn’t_ have Geralt to focus on, for an entire month. Thank the gods there are thirteen other Witchers _and_ the cub to keep him busy.

*

Getting down the Trail is much less of a hassle now than it used to be. Back when Kaer Morhen only housed the Wolf School, when Witchers were itinerant monster-hunters and not the Warlord’s army, it was important to keep the Trail nearly impassible as another layer of the school’s defenses. _Now_ , of course, there are regular wagon trains and bands of Witchers and clusters of wide-eyed townsfolk come to beg aid of the White Wolf, and so they’ve had to make the Trail a lot less dangerous. It took a while, even with a couple of hundred Witchers working on it on and off, but now, while it’s still steep and full of switchbacks, it’s been widened and braced, the road surface flattened and the holes filled in, and little grassy bits off to one side or the other have somewhat accidentally been turned into resting areas for those exhausted by the climb. It’s still not _pleasant_ , but it’s not the nightmare it used to be.

Eskel is extremely grateful for this, because while he and the other Witchers would have had little trouble with the _old_ Trail, neither Jaskier nor the cub would have enjoyed it at _all_.

As it is, getting down the Trail is blessedly uneventful, and Ciri - thank every god - stays right next to Eskel, between him and Coën where they can both keep an eye on her. Jaskier is sandwiched safely between Aubry and Cedric. Letho and Ealdred lead the horses - they don’t have many, just a palfrey each for the humans and three packhorses to carry the Witchers’ gear.

It’s a long day’s walk - Ciri may be a Witcher’s daughter, agile and strong for her age, but she’s _still_ only a human child, and needs regular breaks and to be carried over the steeper bits - but they make it to the bottom of the Trail by late afternoon, and Eskel sent word ahead a few days ago to the town that’s sprung up at the bottom of the Trail, so there are rooms waiting for them at the inn and a hot dinner and even baths.

It’s a luxury they won’t have often for the rest of the month, but one last night in real beds was an opportunity no one wanted to pass up.

Eskel herds an exhausted Jaskier and Ciri up the stairs as soon as they’ve eaten. Both of them are drooping like unwatered flowers, and for a minute he thinks he might actually have to sling them over his shoulders and carry them _both_ the rest of the way, until Jaskier rallies what’s clearly his last strength and staggers the last few steps into the room and collapses onto the first bed, leaving Eskel free to scoop Ciri up and deposit her very gently onto the bed in the far corner. She’s asleep before she hits the mattress, and Eskel smooths her hair out of her face and kisses her forehead and tucks her in gently. “Darling cub,” he whispers, too soft for anyone to hear, and Ciri smiles a little in her sleep.

Eskel assumes Jaskier will _also_ be asleep, but when he rises from tucking Ciri in, it’s to find that the bard is still - blearily - awake. “Which room you in?” he mutters, face half-smooshed into the pillow. Eskel smothers a chuckle.

“This room,” he says. “To guard you.”

Jaskier props himself up on an elbow and blinks at the room, clearly looking for a third bed, and then rolls his eyes and flops down again, shifting over to one side of his mattress. “Stupid self-sacrificing Witchers,” he mutters. “ _Not_ going to just meditate all night. Come be warm.” And he pats the empty space in the bed.

Eskel was, in fact, planning to meditate all night, but - well, this town is _very_ loyal to the Wolf, and there are thirteen other Witchers standing watches in the hallway outside this room _and_ below the windows. And Jaskier _asked_.

He kicks off his boots and lies down, and instantly has a long-standing suspicion confirmed: Jaskier cuddles like a godsdamned _octopus_. It’s adorable and baffling. How are there so _many_ limbs?

But Jaskier’s sleep-slow heartbeat, still faster than any Witcher’s ever is, is oddly soothing, and so is Ciri’s slow breathing, and the room is full of the scent of contented humans, so Eskel lets himself relax and be used as a particularly large hot water bottle, and drifts off to a very refreshing sleep indeed.

*

The first day on the road with thirteen other Witchers and two humans is...enlightening. Mostly in the sense that Eskel _definitely_ underestimated the amount of chaos he was going to have to ride herd on during this little jaunt. He’s never spent an entire day in Jaskier’s company before, and didn’t quite realize that the bard can, in fact, spend _literal hours_ humming and singing and _re-_ singing, working out the lines and melodies of his songs. He’s a _good_ singer, and Eskel enjoys listening to him, but it’s...a lot.

And then, of course, there’s the cub, who is curious about _everything_. Jaskier is quite correct: they _should_ have been taking her out into the world more often. She wants explanations of pretty much everything they pass, from the inn to the market to the fields of crops to the animals to the people and their tasks, on and on and on. Jaskier, bless the man, answers most of them, but when he’s gone off into a bout of composition, it’s up to the Witchers instead. Eskel sets up a rotation after the first deluge of questions, assigning a different Witcher to walk at her stirrup and keep her company for every hour. Most of the rest of them roam out alongside the path, venturing into the woods or stalking along behind the hedgerows, keeping their senses on high alert for _anything_ that might dare threaten the Warlord’s Consort or his heir.

Somehow, Eskel ends up being the first target for most of her questions, even when there’s another Witcher _right there_. And so many of the questions are things he frankly doesn’t know the answers to:

“Uncle Eskel, does it hurt the sheep when they’re sheared?” Eskel has no idea.

“Uncle Eskel, can you make bread out of acorns?” Probably not?

“Uncle Eskel, how come there’s only one bull and _lots_ of cows?” (That one sets Letho off in a fit of laughter that leaves him leaning against a tree, _howling_ ; Eskel has absolutely no qualms about leaving him there. He catches up about a mile down the road. It’s fine.)

By the time the sun starts to set and they find a suitable clearing for their first night of camping, Eskel is _very_ tired. It’s a good tired, though, mostly composed of having walked all day and taken occasional jaunts into the woods to hunt rabbits (Letho, the overcompetitive bastard, brought down an entire _deer_ ) and having answered more questions than he thought any given person could come up with. Say whatever you like about the cub, she _notices_ things, and she’s got a very active sense of curiosity.

She also, thank the gods, is exhausted from a day of traveling and seeing new things, and falls asleep over her haunch of rabbit. Jaskier laughs softly and takes the rabbit out of her hands, and Eskel gathers her into his arms. She’s growing into a lanky thing; she’ll be tall when she’s a woman. But she’s still small enough to cradle against his chest, just as he did when she was an infant tiny enough he was frankly worried about breaking her if he touched her, and she makes a little formless sound and curls against him, head on his shoulder, and goes limp and boneless, utterly trusting.

Eskel should put her down on her bedroll, but he really doesn’t want to. She’s safe _here_ , in his arms, cuddled close, and it’s the first night she’s spent anywhere but a bedroom - well, since she was too young to remember, anyhow, since presumably Geralt camped out some of the nights during his journey home with her, ten years ago - and what sort of monster puts a child down when she looks so sweet and contented in his arms?

Jaskier chuckles. “You’re going to have trouble finishing your dinner if you don’t put her down,” he points out.

This is quite true. Eskel grimaces. “I can wait,” he says at last. “I just don’t -”

Jaskier smiles at him, sweet and fond, and shifts over to sit beside him, and holds out a spitted haunch of rabbit. “Eat, silly wolf,” he says gently.

Eskel blinks at him stupidly for a moment, then takes a bite of the rabbit. Jaskier holds it steady until Eskel has eaten it down to the spit, and then swaps it out for a hunk of bread - fresh this morning, still soft now - and after that, a waterskin, tilted just right. Eskel finishes drinking and gives Jaskier a grateful smile.

“Eh, I get it,” Jaskier says, looking down at Ciri with a softness in his eyes, warm affection all through his scent. “She’s the most precious thing in the world, and even if we’re as safe as it’s _possible_ to be, what with all of the _other_ Witchers currently guarding us, still. We’re not in Kaer Morhen.”

“Exactly,” Eskel says, sighing, and ducks his head to tuck his nose against the crown of Ciri’s head and breathe in the smell he’s never been able to define, something sweet and pure that he’s only ever been able to label _cub_.

Jaskier leans back on his hands, looking up at the stars. Eskel glances over at the clean pale line of his bared throat and then away again. The man is _far_ too pretty sometimes, and the sheer courage that such vulnerability requires - of being one of the only two humans in a camp full of Witchers and being comfortable enough to _relax_ so thoroughly - is astonishingly appealing.

“Don’t know that I ever really got to look at the stars like this before,” Jaskier says softly. “It’s different in a city. Buildings everywhere, and the lamps on the streets - you don’t see as much. And on the way to Kaer Morhen I certainly wasn’t taking the opportunity to admire the natural beauty around me.” He hums a little. “ _There’s a star that gleams in time with your heart / darling daughter, look up to see it shine / it lit on the day you came into the world / it will not fade until the end of time…_ What do you think?”

“Very pretty,” Eskel says, quite honestly. “A song for the cub?”

“Probably, if I can get the scansion to cooperate.” Jaskier hums a few notes. “Still trying to figure out what I want to sing at the festival. If I can’t come up with anything else, I’ll just do _Ode to Witchers_ \- but I’d like to have something new to debut. It’ll be my first audience that isn’t mostly Witchers!”

Eskel has no idea what sort of music elves might like. He’s met several - has, in fact, met Filavandrel aen Fidhail more than once - but all of their meetings have been purely business, whether that was monster-hunting or the Warlord’s errands. “Whatever you come up with will be fine,” he says, as reassuringly as he can.

“Hm,” says Jaskier. “We’ve got a month. I wonder if I could teach you all to sing in chorus in a month.”

“No,” says Letho, from across the fire.

“Maybe,” says Cedric.

“ _No_ ,” says Letho, and it devolves pretty much immediately into a wrestling match. Coën sighs loudly enough for even human ears, and shoves at the ball of Cat and Viper Witchers until they roll away under the trees, far enough from the fire not to cause trouble.

Jaskier is laughing, almost soundlessly so as not to wake Ciri. “ _Witchers_ ,” he says, sounding absurdly fond. It’s a startling tone, even now; Eskel spent decades hearing the word spat out like it was poisonous, snarled contemptuously, whispered like a deadly secret. To hear it as an _endearment_ , fond and comfortable and gentle, is still strange.

Good, but strange.

“I should make Letho take a solo,” Jaskier decides, grinning, and Eskel would put a hand over his eyes if he wasn’t holding Ciri.

“Go to _sleep_ , bard,” he says instead. “It was a long day, and tomorrow will be longer.”

“You, too,” Aubry rumbles from the treeline. “We’ve got watch. Keep the cub warm.”

“What about keeping _me_ warm?” Jaskier asks, and Eskel knows he’s faking the mournful tone and the enormous pleading eyes he turns towards Eskel, but they’re quite good all the same.

Somehow, that results in Eskel going to sleep curled around Ciri, with Jaskier tucked up against his back, an arm and a leg wrapped around Eskel. It’s surprisingly comfortable, all things considered. Everything smells of _cub_ and warm contentment and something sweet and calming that Eskel can’t quite label. He thinks, as he’s falling asleep, that it’s been present in Jaskier’s scent for a fair while now, but it’s usually...stronger, maybe? Still, it’s very nice.

*

The next few days are some of the calmest and least stressful days Eskel has had in _decades_. With fourteen Witchers in the party, nothing gets close enough to even _attempt_ to threaten their two precious humans. They have coin enough to pay for food and beds in the towns they pass, and when there isn’t a town near enough, they can hunt enough rabbits or deer to feed them all without trouble, and the late spring is warm enough that camping out is no hardship. They’re close enough to Kaer Morhen that there are no monsters anywhere nearby. Ciri is wholeheartedly delighted by _everything_ , and with fourteen Witchers and a bard to look after her, is always under _someone’s_ eye. Jaskier declares on the second day that just because they’re traveling is no reason not to have lessons, and enlists the Witchers to help teach Ciri about the plants around them, the birds they can hear singing their little hearts out in the trees, how to set up and take down a camp, how to clean and spit and cook rabbits or birds - anything that comes up, really. And they all speak at least a couple of languages, so Jaskier makes a game of it, calling out _Nilfgaardian!_ or _Skelliger!_ or _Elder!_ \- that last fairly often, since they’re on their way to meet with elves - and then the whole party has to speak nothing but that tongue until he calls a halt. It delights Ciri, and it does pass the time quite handily.

And Jaskier, bless and damn the man, really _does_ organize the ten Witchers who are willing to cooperate into a chorus, and starts teaching them to sing in harmony.

Eskel isn’t sure whether to be more impressed by the man’s determination or dismayed at the fact that due to Ciri’s cheerful assumption that of _course_ her Uncle Eskel will take part in such an entertaining hobby, _he’s_ one of the new Witcher choir. Somehow, Geralt owes him for this.

He’s probably never going to admit aloud that it _is_ sort of fun, marching along bellowing the words to some cheerful old tune or other - Jaskier said they should get used to singing together before he started teaching them the song he actually wants to use at the festival - but there’s a certain pleasure to it, especially when Ciri joins in, voice soaring over theirs like a lark above the fields. It takes Jaskier a day or so to get the hang of playing a lute while riding a horse - eventually he figures out that there has to be someone _leading_ the horse, because he can’t hold reins and lute strings at the same time - but once he does, their songs improve markedly, the lute music keeping them all to the melody.

Everyone they pass on the road looks _spectacularly_ confused by the spectacle of singing Witchers, but they also look...amused and entertained, Eskel decides after the fourth or fifth passing traveler breaks into a wide and baffled grin. It’s not a look that Witchers usually get, even now; in the Warlord’s lands, Witchers show up to solve problems, and they might be greeted with relief or gratitude or tears, but not _amusement_. It’s a very strange feeling, being _smiled_ at by random passers-by.

Good, but strange.

Eskel feels extremely comfortable hanging the responsibility for this particular oddity on Jaskier; there’s no one else in the _world_ who could have convinced even _two_ Witchers to learn to sing in tune, much less ten.

Witcher _catmint_ , he swears.

*

The nights, too, are peaceful. Ciri walks part of the day and rides part of the day and spars in the mornings before they set out - no one is willing to skimp on her training - and by the time they find an inn or make camp, she’s so exhausted she can barely finish her dinner before she falls into bed. Her stamina’s improving, though, and she’s bright-eyed and cheerful right up until the point she’s _asleep_. Her steady heartbeat and easy, slow breathing are soothing to all the Witchers, not just Eskel, but it’s Eskel who sleeps closest to her, who tucks her into an inn’s bed or covers her with a thick blanket and curls around her near the campfire.

The other Witchers, by some unspoken agreement that Eskel is _not_ privy to, appear to have decided that Eskel is to be...not coddled, he wouldn’t stand for coddling. But he’s not assigned night watches, and his bedroll always ends up between those of the two humans, and he stands guard at the inns from _inside_ Jaskier and Ciri’s bedroom, not the corridor outside it. No one goes easy on him during morning sparring, and he’s expected to bring in game or edible plants from his forays out into the woods as they travel, just like all the other Witchers, and Letho is still an ass just like he always is...but there’s a distinct sense that Eskel has earned a bit of a break, and his fellows are giving it to him.

Thank the gods none of them _say_ anything to that effect. Witchers don’t talk about emotions well, and Eskel is no exception. He’d probably end up punching someone.

As it is, he can just enjoy this little vacation, full of music and Ciri’s happy chatter, Jaskier’s singing and conversation, and the company of his fellows. Really, the only thing that could make this better would be if _Geralt_ was here, too, but the White Wolf can’t go gallivanting off for a month’s jaunt. Ciri has a necklace that will let Yennefer find her anywhere, and so does Jaskier, and Eskel has a xenovox in his pack so he can check in with Geralt once a week and confirm that everything is still going well, and that will have to do.

*

“He organized a _chorus_ ,” Geralt says, flatly incredulous.

Eskel grins at the sky, xenovox balanced comfortably on his knee. The moon is a beautiful silver crescent. “Yep.”

“Letho?”

“Not yet.”

“Oh good, you haven’t all been drugged,” Geralt says, and Eskel laughs. “How?”

“He suggested it and the cub declared it was a wonderful idea,” Eskel says. “Between the two of them…”

Geralt’s soft, rough laughter is a rare sound, and one Eskel cherishes. “Got us all wound around their fingers,” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” Eskel says. “Keep burnt down yet?”

“No,” Geralt says, and chuckles again. “Milena finished that tunic she’s been making for Lambert. The one with the roses.”

“Yeah? He faint?” Milena has been working on the tunic for some weeks now, swearing everyone who saw it to secrecy. It’s very pretty work, Eskel has to admit, though he will also admit he knows precisely nothing about embroidery except what he’s learned from seeing Milena at her craft.

“Near enough.” Geralt hums. “They didn’t come out of her rooms for a full day, and he’s been wearing it ever since.”

Eskel snorts. “I’ll tell Jaskier. He’ll be delighted.”

“Hm,” Geralt agrees. There’s a pause. “Supper’s too fucking quiet.”

Eskel grimaces. Yeah, without their bard - well, nearly two years is long enough that they’ve all gotten used to having music after supper most nights. “How many brawls?”

“Three.”

“Mph,” Eskel says. He won’t be telling Jaskier about _that_. Three’s a lot more than there usually are in a week. “Maybe we do need a chorus. Couple more musicians. Something.”

“Hm,” Geralt says.

“I’ll bring him back safe,” Eskel promises. “Three more weeks.”

“I know,” Geralt says. No worry, no hesitation; nothing but trust. Eskel will always look after what is Geralt’s, will always keep his people safe. They both know it, solid as the stone of Kaer Morhen, endless as the deep blackness between the stars.


	3. Chapter 3

Jaskier is having a simply marvelous time. It’s a beautiful late spring, the flowers are blooming and the birds are singing and the air is crisp and clear and the sky is blue; the company is delightful, both the Witchers and darling Ciri; he has his lute and a half a dozen ideas for songs and a performance for _elves_ in the relatively near future. Really the only thing lacking is _Geralt_ , though that’s a fairly large gap. They haven’t been apart more than two days since Jaskier first came to Kaer Morhen, aside from that unpleasantness in Kovir - haven’t had more than two nights apart since they became lovers.

Cuddling with Eskel isn’t quite the _same_ , but it’s as good a substitute as Jaskier is going to get. Eskel _is_ remarkably snuggly, actually. And puts up with Jaskier’s own tendency to glom onto his bedmate and cling like a limpet with startling grace.

Jaskier takes it as quite the compliment that Eskel sleeps so willingly in the same bed as Jaskier, or with Jaskier snugged up behind him in their camps. Witchers _don’t_ sleep well around people they don’t trust, he’s learned that much, and the fact that he’s actually managed to wake up _before_ Eskel a couple of times is incredibly flattering.

They’ve been traveling for just over a week the day he and Ciri _both_ wake before Eskel does. The inn they’re staying at only had a few rooms, and the best room had a single large bed, so the three of them all piled in together. Jaskier isn’t bothering to object to the fact that the other Witchers stand watch outside the doors and windows of whatever room he and Ciri ends up in; the Warlord’s Consort and heir are a pair of _priceless_ prizes for anyone who is feeling vindictive, and Jaskier has been stabbed _once_ already and doesn’t care to repeat the experience. And Ciri, of course, must be kept safe at all costs.

Ciri sits up, grinning at Jaskier, and nods at Eskel, miming sleep and putting a finger to her lips. Jaskier nods. Eskel needs as much sleep as he can get. Ciri smiles and starts carding her fingers through Eskel’s hair, and he makes a low rumbly noise and curls around her and goes, if possible, even more relaxed.

“Do _all_ Witchers like their hair petted?” Jaskier asks, voice a bare thread of sound.

Ciri shrugs. “I don’t know,” she replies, just as quietly. “Uncle Eskel does. And Uncle Lambert.”

_That_ , Jaskier had deduced, given the number of times he’s stumbled across Lambert sitting with his head in Milena’s lap and a truly infatuated look on his face as she runs her fingers through his hair. He’s never teased Lambert about it. He doesn’t _deliberately_ go for the soft spots, not with friends.

He’s teased _Milena_ about it, gently, during their morning shared baths, and Milena always goes pink and grins, and these days responds with a quip about Geralt’s head in _his_ lap, which is a hell of a lot bawdier than Jaskier ever guessed her sense of humor would turn out to be, but it makes Triss and Yen laugh their heads off, so that’s alright.

Moving slowly, Jaskier reaches up to join Ciri in petting Eskel’s hair, and the Witcher makes another rumbly noise and flops over onto his stomach, sprawled across Ciri’s legs. Ciri laughs soundlessly. Jaskier grins, utterly charmed.

They’ll have to get up in a bit - morning sparring calls, and another day on the road - but for just now this is a perfect moment, right here, Ciri glowing with happiness and Eskel completely relaxed and Jaskier himself overflowing with warm adoration. The only thing that could possibly improve this instant would be Geralt, curled around Jaskier with his breath hot against the back of his neck - but there’s no reason they couldn’t recreate this, someday, in Kaer Morhen. The bed in Geralt’s room is large enough.

_There is sunlight in your hair, oh my darling, oh my dear / there is sunlight in your hair, shining bright as molten gold / what do I need with the stars and the moon / when I have the sun in my arms to hold…_

Huh. Yeah, Jaskier can work with that. But. Interesting. He’s written songs for a number of the Witchers - _Amber Eyes_ for Eskel and _Sharper than Swords_ for Lambert and _Quiet Wolf_ for Aubry - and songs for the various _Schools_ , too, _Silent and Deadly_ for the Cats and _Beware_ for the Bears and _Regal_ for the Griffins, lauding their accomplishments and their techniques, just as the bard of Kaer Morhen ought.

But all his _love_ songs have been about Geralt, whether he made that explicit or not. Getting inspiration from looking at _Eskel_ all relaxed and comfortable in the early light of dawn is...unexpected.

Not necessarily _bad_. Just unexpected.

He’ll have to talk to Geralt about this.

*

Eskel wakes not long after the sun clears the horizon, and seems rather baffled to find himself sprawled across Ciri’s legs and being petted by both of his companions. Not necessarily unhappy, just confused. Ciri solves that problem by saying, “Uncle Eskel, you’re _heavy_ ,” and then it turns into a normal morning, all of them tumbling out of bed and through their morning routines before they head downstairs to eat a quick breakfast with the other Witchers and head out into the inn’s yard for their sparring practice.

Jaskier is learning to use a short sword - has been since a few weeks after his unfortunate encounter with Princess Agata’s dagger. He learned the rapier years ago, as was expected of a noble son, but he was never terribly interested in it, and in any case he learned _duelling_ , not real fighting. He doesn’t much enjoy using a sword even now, but it makes Geralt happy to know he can defend himself at least a little, so he puts up with the bruises with relatively good grace.

It’s a _little_ embarrassing that Ciri can beat him four bouts in five. Then again, _she’s_ been training since she was old enough to hold a tiny practice dagger, and also she _likes_ fighting, and has a natural aptitude for it. Before he learned about her actual blood heritage, Jaskier had assumed that was just a product of being a Witcher’s daughter; now he figures it’s just luck of the draw, or possibly Queen Calanthe’s talents passed down to her granddaughter.

In any case, every morning the _Witchers_ practice against each other, moving so fast their blades blur, leaping and dodging and rolling beneath each other’s strikes, and whenever they’re in town, the townsfolk gather to gape at the spectacle. Most people never get to see a Witcher fight, after all; when they go after monsters, it’s not like they bring an audience, and sensible people stay far away from battlefields. This is damned good publicity, Jaskier knows, for the Warlord’s people to get the opportunity to see the true talent and awe-inspiring skill of their protectors.

And once the Witchers have worn themselves out against each other, they beckon Ciri and Jaskier forward. Even a tired Witcher is much, much faster than a human, but they’ve gotten pretty good at slowing down enough to let Ciri have a _chance_ , and Jaskier is mostly still doing forms anyhow, drilling strikes and blocks over and over until they become muscle memory. He remembers this sort of thing from learning to play instruments, and he never much enjoyed it, but he knows how important it is, and runs through the motions obediently as Eskel or Aubry or Coën watches and gives occasional corrections. Whenever he glances over at Ciri, she’s doing something improbably athletic, grinning like the little menace she is. Whichever Witcher is sparring with her is usually _also_ grinning, because she has everyone in Kaer Morhen wound around her slender fingers. It’s frankly adorable.

The Witchers are usually content to dunk their heads under the well-pump once practice is over, but Jaskier has bespoken a cold bath for himself and Ciri, because riding all day while sweaty is _not_ pleasant. Still, it’s only midmorning before they’re on the road again, fourteen Witchers and a girl and Jaskier, almost all of them singing a marching song as they go.

Jaskier’s going to get Letho singing if it’s the last thing he does, he really is. Or rather, _Ciri_ probably is - the big Viper Witcher can only hold out against her weaponized puppy eyes for so long. He’s already starting to crumble, if Jaskier is any judge. He certainly doesn’t have any support from his fellow Viper: Auckes is bellowing along in time, if not precisely in tune, and looking like he’s enjoying himself immensely.

It’s a beautiful day, and Jaskier is enjoying himself immensely.

So, naturally, as they approach a crossroads, there’s a scream.

*

The thing about traveling with fourteen Witchers is that it’s _overkill_. A single Witcher is a match for nearly anything, monster or man; _two_ Witchers can take care of everything short of an actual army. So as soon as the scream rings out, Jaskier and Ciri are both snatched down off their horses and ringed in by six Witchers, their swords appearing in their hands like magic, while the other eight Witchers go haring off towards the sound, faster than any mere humans could run.

Ciri, startled, yelps and grabs for the dagger on her hip, taking up a defensive stance in front of Jaskier. Jaskier blinks down at her for a moment, and then at Eskel and Aubry and Coën, Letho and Cedric and Axel, as they stand shoulder to shoulder around their two human charges. Really, drawing his sword would probably make him _less_ safe, since he might drop it on his own foot or something.

“I feel distinctly useless,” he says, and puts a hand on Ciri’s shoulder. “Deep breaths, darling cub; _we’re_ safe as houses.”

“What _is_ it?” Ciri asks, as another scream and a roar sound out, somewhere quite a ways away.

“Archgriffin,” Eskel says. “Fuck it, we should’ve gotten a report if there was a nesting archgriffin in the area -”

“Must’ve come in recently,” Coën says. All six Witchers are scanning the sky and the forest around them. “Move under the trees?”

“Aye,” Eskel says, and the ring of Witchers shuffles sideways off the road, with Jaskier and Ciri kept carefully in the middle, until they’re under the shade of a little coppice.

There’s a long, tense silence. Jaskier would usually babble to keep himself from panicking, but something about the wall of Witchers between him and the world - between _Ciri_ and the world - is slightly overwhelming.

And then there’s another roar that cuts off quite abruptly, and all the Witchers relax at once.

“Fuck,” Eskel says, scrubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “I’ll have to tell Geralt to send more patrols out in this area. We shouldn’t have missed an entire fucking _archgriffin_.”

“To be fair,” Cedric says mildly, “they fly. Might have just moved in a few days ago. No other predators around - probably though it was prime open territory.”

“How do archgriffins usually mark their territories?” Jaskier asks. Ciri puts her dagger away carefully. “We could maybe find some way to imitate it, and keep other archgriffins from thinking empty territory is open to be claimed.”

“They piss on trees,” Letho says.

“Ah,” Jaskier says.

“We could send out roving packs of drunk Witchers with orders to piss on as many trees as possible,” Coën suggests.

“That _would_ be a popular assignment,” Eskel says, chuckling.

“I’d sign up for it,” Letho offers. Ciri giggles, which makes all of the Witchers relax even further.

Someone not too far away whistles a short, complicated phrase, and Eskel reaches up to rub his forehead. “Ah,” he sighs.

“What was that?” Jaskier asks. He knows the Witchers _have_ a sort of whistle-language, used in battle or across distances too wide to make shouting helpful, but he hasn’t learned much of it.

“Wounded,” Eskel says. “Back to the horses; we’ll need to go meet _them_.”

The archgriffin’s victims, when they reach the site of the battle, turn out to have been a small family of elves. Thank the gods, none of them are dead, but the two adults have been clawed fairly badly, and the youngest - a child who can’t be much older than Ciri - is hiding beneath the wagon, shaking with fear. Auckes is crouched in front of the wagon, attempting to coax the lad out, with minimal success. One of the horses in the wagon traces is dead - if Jaskier had to guess, it was the archgriffin’s first target - and the other looks half ready to gallop off in a panic, prevented only by the fact that Stefan is standing at its head, holding it steady with Axii, while Merten gets the dead horse unharnessed.

Jaskier dismounts and beckons Ciri to join him. “It might help if he sees another child,” he tells her softly. “You can practice your Elder: tell him everything’s going to be alright.”

Ciri crouches down next to Auckes and holds out a hand. “Hail and well met, stranger who may yet be a friend,” she says, in very good Elder. Jaskier’s heart hurts with how proud of her he is. “I am Cirilla, daughter of the White Wolf. You are safe; the danger is past. Will you come out and greet my companions?”

Slowly, the lad unfolds himself from under the wagon, glancing over at where the adult elves are being tended by Ealdred and Cedric. “Will my kinsfolk live, Cirilla daughter of the Wolf?” he asks, voice shaking a little.

Ealdred looks up and catches Jaskier’s eye and nods briefly, then goes back to suturing a long gash in his patient’s arm. “They will live,” Jaskier says in Elder, putting a hand on Ciri’s shoulder. “Hail and well met, young stranger who may yet be a friend. I am Jaskier of Kaer Morhen, Consort of the White Wolf. May we know your name?”

“I am Dara,” the lad says. Ciri grins and offers him a hand, and he clasps it tentatively.

“I am honored to know your name,” she says, and Jaskier beams down at her. His clever little cub, remembering _everything_ she’s been taught about how to be polite to elves - oh, he’s so proud of her, she’s going to be so _magnificent_ when she’s grown. “Do you want to see the dead archgriffin?” she adds, and Jaskier sighs a little and puts a hand over his eyes. Little _menace_.

But the lad - Dara - nods, eyes wide, and Ciri tugs him over towards where Auckes and Axel are taking the monster apart. Archgriffin bits go into several Witcher potions, Jaskier knows. He never really wanted to watch one being hacked into small pieces, though.

Dara seems to appreciate knowing that the monster that hurt his kinsfolk is quite thoroughly dead, at any rate.

Jaskier leaves them to it - Coën and Letho are right there to keep Ciri safe - and goes over to greet the adult elves, who are sitting up watching everything with wide, slightly shocky eyes. They both look like they’re in substantial pain, which - well, Witchers don’t pack a lot of analgesic medications, since they don’t work very well on Witchers, and don’t tend to remember that _non-_ Witchers do in fact feel pain. “Ealdred, go and get a couple of the human-safe pain relief potions, please,” Jaskier murmurs, and then bows to the elves. “Hail and well met, strangers who may yet be friends,” he says in Elder. “I am Jaskier of Kaer Morhen, Consort of the White Wolf. May I know your names?”

“We are Neremyn and Lyari,” says the male elf in the same tongue, offering a hand which Jaskier clasps. “You are the human who has won the White Wolf’s heart; we are honored to know your name.”

“We owe our lives, and the life of our son, to your companions,” the female elf - _probably_ Lyari, but elven names aren’t always gendered the way Jaskier usually expects them to be - says softly. “How may we repay this debt?”

Jaskier shakes his head. “There is no debt,” he says firmly. “It is the duty of the Witchers of Kaer Morhen to protect the White Wolf’s people from monsters, and it is we who owe you an apology that this archgriffin was not discovered before it could do you harm.”

“What the bard said,” Eskel agrees, stepping up beside Jaskier with a polite nod to the elves, and holding out a pair of small vials. “I am Eskel of the Wolf School, the leader of this expedition. These are for relief of pain.”

“The Consort does not lead?” probably-Lyari asks, looking startled, as she takes the vials. She and Neremyn drink without hesitation, and Jaskier can see the moment that the pain of their injuries drains away. Triss makes _good_ potions.

“Eskel does not claim his true title,” Jaskier tells her wryly. “He is the White Wolf’s right hand, who speaks with the Wolf’s voice in his absence, and commands in the Wolf’s place.”

“We are thrice honored,” probably-Neremyn says faintly.

“Were you on the way to the festival?” Eskel asks, looking a little uncomfortable with the expressions of awe on both elves’ faces. Which is adorable, frankly.

“Yes,” probably-Neremyn says.

“Well then,” Jaskier says, grinning, “what luck! So are we. You can travel with us.”

“We are honored,” says probably-Lyari, bowing her head graciously, and the elves rise to go and see what damage has been done to their wagon.

Eskel pulls Jaskier away gently, leaning close to murmur, “Are you sure?”

“It’ll be good for Ciri to spend some time with another child,” Jaskier replies, just as quietly, gesturing slightly to where Ciri and Dara are crouched near the dead archgriffin, pelting the Witchers dismembering it with questions. “And she can practice her Elder. And we help some of Geralt’s subjects get to the festival, and _they_ can tell some stories of heroic Witchers and how you’re not as terrifying as all that, really; and we’ll probably get some credit with Filavandrel as well.”

“Hm,” says Eskel, regarding Ciri and Dara thoughtfully for a moment. “Well, you’re the political mastermind around here. If you think it’s wise, we’ll follow your lead. We can replace their horse with one of the packhorses, and make decent time even _with_ the wagon.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier says, and absently leans over and brushes a kiss against Eskel’s scarred cheek before heading over to make sure Ciri isn’t getting into too much trouble. He realizes what he’s done about halfway there, and turns to see Eskel has one hand on his cheek and a look of absolute blank astonishment on his face.

Welp, that’s a thing to worry about _later_ , isn’t it now. Jaskier turns back and heads for Ciri determinedly.

*

Traveling with three elves is fascinating, actually. Jaskier rides alongside the wagon, talking to Lyari and Neremyn, and Ciri and Dara sit in the back of the wagon giggling together as children do. The Witchers flank the wagon and range ahead and behind, in a swirling pattern that makes sure there’s always someone near Ciri and always someone near Jaskier. They don’t sing, but Jaskier figures that can be a project for later.

Lyari tells him, when he asks as gently as he can, that their family lived in Cintra, and escaped ahead of Queen Calanthe’s pogroms, settling in the Warlord’s lands gratefully. They are traders, and had been traveling on a long loop meant to bring them down to the southern Kaedweni plains in time for the festival, with a haul of trinkets and news.

“The Warlord’s roads are good, and his people dare not harm us, even if they are not always welcoming,” she says earnestly. “But we have never seen Witchers before, not so many nor so close.” She eyes Auckes as he fades out of the trees, scans the wagon and the people around it, and vanishes into cover again. “They are rather...remarkable.”

“Oh, they definitely are that,” Jaskier agrees wholeheartedly. “And once we reach the festival, you can meet the White Wolf himself, if you like. He’ll be joining us there.”

Lyari’s eyes go wide; Neremyn draws in a sharp breath. “We have heard many rumors of him,” he says hesitantly.

“Well, some of them are more accurate than others,” Jaskier says wryly, and tosses his reins to Eskel as the Witcher goes by, so he can sling his lute over his chest. Eskel sighs up at him as dramatically as he can, which is still not as dramatically as Geralt does, but pretty good nonetheless. He also takes the reins and falls into place beside the palfrey, leading her along calmly. Reliable Eskel, always there when he’s needed, always steady. The bedrock of Kaer Morhen. Jaskier should write him another song - later, but still.

“ _In the dark of night when the monsters rise and no steel blade can slay them,_ ” Jaskier starts, and a dozen voices join in the _Ode to Witchers_ : ten Witchers, and Ciri, and _Dara_. Huh, he hadn’t realized the song had spread far enough for a traveling trader’s child to hear it.

Lyari and Neremyn join in on the chorus, and Jaskier beams at them.

He sings the rest of the afternoon: the songs for all the Witcher Schools and the new one about the stars that he’s working on for Ciri and the one about the goose trick to make Ciri and Dara both laugh, _Amber Eyes_ for Eskel and _The Wolf and the Swan_ because he likes remembering how incredibly embarrassed Lambert gets every time he sings that one, and finally _The Maiden’s Question_ because it’s about him and Geralt and he’s feeling a bit homesick for his glorious lover.

He stops singing when his voice starts to give out, and by that point it’s about time to make camp anyhow. The elves look quite startled at the speed and efficiency with which the Witchers set up the camp, and even more startled when every Witcher brings at least one piece of game to add to the communal stewpot for the night. Dara, especially, stares with wide eyes as Letho brings in an entire deer _again_. The big Witcher grins at the boy. “Strength requires meat,” he says, flexing one enormous arm, and Dara squeaks and grabs at Ciri’s hand. Ciri squeezes his hand and nudges his shoulder comfortingly.

“Letho’s nice,” she promises. “He carries me around on his shoulders, and he taught me all the best places to stab someone if they grab me.”

Jaskier glances up at the heavens with a sigh. _Witchers_. Lyari and Neremyn do not look appeased by this enumeration of Letho’s better qualities. He sits down beside them and tries to look as reassuring as possible. “Truly,” he says in Elder, not bothering to keep his voice down because _Witchers_ , “we would not have brought anyone along on this venture who was not suited to it. Letho has an _abominable_ sense of humor, but he’ll do no harm to you or your child.”

Letho chuckles. “Auckes and Serrit like my sense of humor,” he observes.

“Serrit thinks fart jokes are the height of comedic genius,” Jaskier sighs.

Eskel sits down beside him, chuckling. “So does Letho,” he teases. Letho growls at him, not very convincingly.

Auckes, with the air of someone delivering a crushing argument which will cause the opposition to withdraw utterly from the field, lets out a truly stentorian fart.

Jaskier puts his head in his hands and laughs until he cries, as Ciri and Dara lean on each other and giggle until they fall over. Eskel rests his head on Jaskier’s shoulder, shaking with mirth; the other Witchers roar with laughter. Even Lyari and Neremyn chuckle, looking a little startled at their own amusement.

“So,” Jaskier gasps at last, “notice I did not say that the Witchers in our company are particularly _dignified_.”

Lyari and Neremyn look a lot less nervous now, at least. It’s clearly hard to be scared of a group of men who have just fallen about laughing at a fart. And Dara and Ciri are _both_ pestering Auckes, demanding to know if there’s a trick to being that _loud_. Jaskier leans against Eskel, rubbing his chest - gods, he laughed so hard he thinks he might have _pulled_ something - and Eskel wraps an arm around his shoulders and shakes with quiet laughter, and Aubry - bless the man - pulls the stewpot off the fire after a while and declares that supper is as ready as it’s ever going to be.

*

Ciri insists on sleeping in a heap with Dara, tangled up like puppies in a basket, and Jaskier pats Eskel gently on the shoulder as the Witcher watches the children. “She’s made a friend,” he murmurs, low enough that hopefully only Eskel will hear. “That’s a _good_ thing.”

Eskel sighs and nods.

Jaskier’s pretty sure Ciri isn’t really allowed to make friends with the Witcher trainees mostly because all the adult Witchers remember the pain of the Trials and want to both keep Ciri from being worried about her friends and keep the trainees from being jealous of the girl who gets Witcher training without ever facing the agony they will endure; it’s sensible enough, he guesses, but it _does_ mean she’s not really got anyone else her own age to play with. And an elf child will, if they become true friends, be around for a long time - maybe as long as Ciri will, with her magic and her distant elven heritage sustaining her through the centuries.

(Jaskier is carefully not thinking about the fact that apparently becoming a Witcher’s lover has granted _him_ a small slice of immortality, as well. Milena told him about it months ago, whispering the knowledge she’d gained from Zofia with a sweet, mischievous smile and an admonishment not to tell the Witchers and ruin the betting pool. There’s something moderately ironic about the fact that Witchers, who cannot give their lovers diseases or children, _can_ give them the same long life and good health that they themselves enjoy. Jaskier hasn’t quite figured out how he feels about probably being physically twenty and enthusiastically healthy for _decades_ \- maybe centuries, if the theory about the White Wolf’s...effects being more potent than his fellows’ is accurate. He’s elated, of course, but also slightly terrified, and a little bit amused that Zofia and Milena and the rest of the betting pool are almost certainly correct: it’s going to take another decade at a minimum before any of the Witchers truly _notice_ what’s going on.)

In any case, Jaskier is glad to see that Ciri is making a friend, and Eskel finally sighs and leaves the children to their rest. Jaskier settles down tucked against Eskel’s back as he usually does, curling around him and taking comfort in his warmth.

He’s oddly charmed to wake up in the first dim light of dawn to find that Eskel has turned around during the night and curled around _him_ , his head on Jaskier’s chest, holding onto him as tightly as Geralt ever does.


	4. Chapter 4

Eskel is only a little embarrassed to wake and find he’s clinging to Jaskier like a child to a comforting toy. He’s grown used to holding _Ciri_ so that she stays warm and safe; without her, clearly he glommed on to the nearest human. And Jaskier, who is already awake, doesn’t seem to mind; he’s completely relaxed, one arm wrapped around Eskel’s shoulders and the other resting on the arm Eskel has flung over his chest, making the soft humming noises deep in his throat that he always does when he’s composing. He smells of contentment, pure and pleasant, with that sweet warm under-note that Eskel still can’t quite name; it’s no wonder Eskel slept so well, with that scent filling the air; even the humming isn’t truly distracting.

Eskel’s pretty sure the bard hasn’t gone a day without singing since he was brought to Kaer Morhen, and if he ever _does_ , it’ll be a sign that something has gone truly _appallingly_ wrong.

Since Jaskier doesn’t seem bothered by being cuddled, Eskel doesn’t bother with apologies, just unwraps himself from the bard and gives Jaskier a hand up. Jaskier grins at him, brushes another kiss against Eskel’s scarred cheek, and goes bouncing off to rouse Ciri and Dara and make sure they wash their hands and faces before eating their breakfast.

Wait.

Eskel keeps packing his bedroll, hands working without any input from his mind, as he reviews the last few moments again. Yesterday, Jaskier kissed him on the cheek, and then looked and smelled as startled as Eskel had been; Eskel had chalked that up to a brief moment of inattention on Jaskier’s part and gone on with his day. But that he has done it again _today_ -

Eskel has no idea what that means. It’s also not something he’s going to bring up in his weekly xenovox talk with Geralt. This is not something to discuss across miles, without being able to see Geralt’s face and read his faint expressions. But once they get to the festival, once Geralt joins them - _then_ , yes, Eskel is going to have to say something to his dearest friend. _What_ , he’s not quite sure. _Your Consort, who is also my dear friend, and - I must admit - an astonishingly attractive man, has taken to cuddling me while I sleep and kissing me on the cheek. And I like it._ Geralt, the taciturn bastard, will probably just hum at him.

Eskel’s shared a bed with Geralt before, in both the literal and the euphemistic senses. When they were children, before the Trials, it was always cold in Kaer Morhen, and they slept bundled together in one cot, sharing body heat and comfort. After the Trials, they both found the slow beat of the other’s heart to be the most soothing rhythm imaginable, and shared a bed more often than not, trading off which of them got to sleep with their ear pressed to the other’s chest, lulled by the steady thumping. And then once they were a bit older, wild with mutagens and hormones and endless burning energy, they and Gweld and Gascaden and most of the other young men had as much sex as they could squeeze in around training and more training and yet _more_ training and the occasional inescapable need for sleep.

That Eskel tended to _prefer_ Geralt as a partner, and Geralt certainly seemed to prefer Eskel, was something neither of them ever said aloud.

And then they went off on the Path, and it was sort of expected that they would put aside childish things, would have gained the self-control that Witchers need and would demonstrate that in _not_ falling upon each other desperately every time they encountered each other. Would satisfy themselves with occasional whores and their own hands, and be content with that. And they did, for the most part. Most of the other Witchers prefer women, so far as Eskel’s ever been able to tell; certainly the stories that got told over long winter hours in Kaer Morhen, home from the Path for a few precious months of peace, were usually of female whores or occasional bold or foolhardy young women with a taste for danger. And _most_ of the Witchers’ lovers who have come to Kaer Morhen since Geralt became Warlord are women. Not all, but most.

Geralt, so far as Eskel has been able to deduce over the years, doesn’t have a marked preference between men and women; he prefers people who aren’t afraid of him - _truly_ prefers people who love him. Which is of course why Jaskier, with his absolutely overwhelming outpouring of love, is so appealing to the White Wolf.

Eskel...hasn’t put a lot of thought into what he prefers. On the Path, he prefers not being dead; in Kaer Morhen _before_ the Warlord thing, he preferred spending time with Geralt, talking or sparring or just sitting in the same room tending their gear in companionable silence, to just about anything else. _After_ the Warlord thing, he’s been so damn busy he’s barely had time to enjoy his _own_ company, much less go looking for anyone else’s.

He doesn’t think he could withstand the sort of all-encompassing adoration Jaskier gives to Geralt - a partner who put _that_ much on Eskel’s shoulders, to add to everything else, would be far too much. But - well. Jaskier is Witcher catmint, Eskel has thought it before and will think it again. If he wasn’t Geralt’s - if Eskel could have maybe a _bit_ of that overwhelming personality focused on him, not the whole thing but a _fraction_ \- that might be pleasant.

And if, in his deepest heart of hearts, he remembers the hours, decades and decades ago, that he spent wrapped up in Geralt’s arms, and wishes he could do that again - not always, not every day, but _sometimes_ \- could express his loyalty and his _love_ in being - hells, in being Geralt’s right hand in a slightly different sense - well, that’s neither here nor there nor anywhere anyone needs to worry about.

He’ll talk to Geralt about Jaskier being affectionate at him - more affectionate than normal, at any rate; the bard is tactile with people he likes and trusts, and Eskel has gotten more than his fair share of hugs and arms thrown about his shoulders and general snuggliness over the past year and a bit - and they’ll figure out what’s going on, and it’ll be fine.

*

Thank whichever gods look after fools and Witchers, the next few days of travel are absolutely uneventful. The older elves start to relax a bit as they see Ciri and Jaskier interact with the Witchers in perfect trust and comfort; the kid, Dara, attaches himself to Ciri like an extra limb and follows her everywhere, even attempting to imitate her during sparring practice. Coën takes a shine to the lad and gives him a short sword and starts teaching him how to use it, to the older elves’ mild dismay; when the lad gets nothing worse than a few bruises, they relax again. Coën’s good with children; Eskel leaves him to it without any qualms at all.

Jaskier sings, and plays his lute, and coaxes his ten-Witcher choir into singing in something like proper tune and time, and Eskel lets himself enjoy it. Usually he would not have the time to spend practicing a song; but then, that’s why he’s leading this expedition, isn’t it? To give him a bit of a vacation, the time to put down his burdens and just _be_ for a while. If part of that involves learning what three-part harmony is and when to start singing another round of the chorus of the _Ode to Witchers_ , then why not, after all?

And it’s good to stretch his legs, to take his turn leaving the road and going out on a long loop, scouting the land around their traveling party to make sure there’s nothing dangerous in the area, running loose and easy across the fields and through the little copses, birdsong and the stamping of rabbits in his ears, the rich scent of good fertile earth and growing things rising around him. It’s good to spar with his fellows in the mornings, wrestling or clashing sword against sword, testing himself and _pushing_ himself and not having to reserve any attention for the piles of paperwork the afternoon might bring, because all the paperwork is back in Kaer Morhen and he doesn’t have to think about it now.

It’s good to spend time teaching the little menace and her new shadow, pointing out the tracks of animals and the edible plants along the roadside, showing them how to tend the horses and set a rabbit snare and season a stew. It’s good to jest with his fellows, rough humor but well-meant. It’s good to _sleep_ , dreamless and unworried, wrapped around Jaskier and breathing in the scent of calm contentment.

At the two-week check in, Eskel sitting in a field out of earshot of the camp so they can talk in something like privacy over the xenovox, Geralt says, “You sound better.”

“I’m feeling better,” Eskel admits. “You were right, I needed a break.”

“Get you an assistant,” Geralt says thoughtfully. “More than one, maybe.”

It’s not a bad idea. “Not Lambert,” Eskel says, and Geralt chuckles.

“Not Lambert,” he agrees. “Gweld maybe. Or Aubry.”

“Hm,” says Eskel, and then Ciri plops herself down in his lap and howls like the little wolf she is.

“Cub,” Geralt says, voice warm, and Eskel wraps an arm around Ciri’s waist and holds her close as she tells her father about Dara and his parents and the archgriffin and the rabbit she caught last night all by herself.

When she’s done and has said goodnight and gone scampering back to camp again, Eskel leans back and looks up at the stars, enjoying the quiet for a long moment, and then he says, “Wolf.”

“Hm.”

“We’re really doing this, aren’t we,” Eskel says slowly. “It’s not just a whim, a couple decades and we’re done and we go back to the Path and the way things used to be. You’re going to be Warlord until you die or abdicate, and I’ll be your right hand the whole damn way, and we’re probably going to end up ruling the entire northern half of the continent within the next two, three decades.”

There’s a long silence, and then a soft sigh. “Yeah,” Geralt says. “I...didn’t really look before I leapt. Didn’t realize it was going to be -” he pauses, considering. “The rest of our lives,” he says at last.

It’s somehow easier, talking without being able to see each other, Eskel thinks. “A Witcher’s life is a fucking long time.”

“Hm,” Geralt agrees. “Regrets?”

“No,” Eskel says. It’s not a duty he ever expected - not one they were trained for - but he can’t regret picking it up. He feels his way carefully through the thoughts, choosing each word like he would a potion, a blade. “Witchers didn’t used to have legacies,” he says slowly. “We went out on the Path, and we killed monsters, and the next year, there were monsters again, and eventually we died and our names were lost, and another Witcher came along to kill the next batch of monsters, over and over again.”

“Hm,” Geralt says, and Eskel hears, _Go on_. He’s always been good at hearing the words Geralt’s bad at saying.

“Us, though,” Eskel says. “All of us who follow the White Wolf. We’ve made a difference. We’ve got a _legacy_. In our lands, we _are_ getting rid of the monsters. There are fewer every year. I’ve got a chart. And they don’t come back. And our names - people will _remember_ us, Geralt. Your little lark is right, we need a historian, because our names won’t be forgotten. That’s...something new. Something _big_. We’ve changed the shape of the world. And that’s changing _us_. Not bad changes, I don’t think, but - hells, Wolf, back when we were just two Witchers on our Paths, would you have ever been able to end up with a mate like your lark?”

“No,” Geralt says. “Couldn’t have kept him, on the Path. Nor our cub, neither.”

“And it’s not just you,” Eskel says. “Lambert and his pretty young swan-maid. Auckes and Zofia. A dozen others, maybe two dozen; and that’s not a lot, compared to how many of us there _are_ , but it’s a _fucking_ lot more than had lovers two decades ago. We’re getting…” he pauses and gropes for words. “We’re getting to be a _people_ , not a bunch of monster hunters with traditions.”

“Hm,” Geralt says. “Don’t know that we know how to be a people.”

“I’m pretty damn sure we don’t,” Eskel says, and chuckles. “We can ask Jaskier.”

“Hm,” Geralt says again, and this time it’s _I’ll think about it_.

There’s a long silence, and Eskel can hear Geralt breathing softly on the other end of the magical connection. Finally Eskel says, “Been a while since we were on the Path. Not used to being so far from you.”

It’s not something a Witcher ought to say, really. But Geralt doesn’t point that out.

What he says, instead, is, “Nor I you.”

The words are soft and gently spoken, and they hit like a well-cast _Aard_. Eskel sits quietly, holding them in his heart, because he heard the rest of that, the words he and Geralt didn’t say. _I miss you. I miss you too._

“Right,” he says at last. “I’ll give Jaskier the xenovox.”

“Hm,” Geralt agrees.

*

Most Witchers don’t tend to use bows - crossbows sometimes, especially the Crane Witchers - but Lyari and Neremyn, clearly trying to find a way to repay the Witchers for their rescue, offer to teach Ciri how to use the elven _zhefar_ shortbow. Ciri is delighted. Eskel is...slightly less delighted, mostly because giving the little menace access to _ranged_ weaponry is a terrifying thought, but Ciri and Dara are swiftly locked in happy competition as to who can hit various nearby targets from the wagon as it rumbles along, and most of the Witchers are happy enough to retrieve the blunted arrows from the underbrush.

It keeps her busy and happy, which is all to the good.

Lyari and Neremyn also cheerfully join in the singing, their voices rising above the Witchers’ deeper tones, and Jaskier seems delighted by the addition to their chorus.

The days are peaceful and uneventful, and then they reach the only true _city_ along their route. Daevon is not a large city, but it’s walled, and all the Witchers grow a little wary as they approach. Monsters are easy; cities are _hard_.

Lyari and Neremyn and Dara grow tense, too.

Jaskier looks at all of them, and grimaces, and nudges his palfrey forward. Eskel, watching, is rather impressed: Jaskier goes from the cheerful young minstrel of the road, disheveled and amiable, to someone a lot more imposing, without ever changing his _appearance_ at all. It’s something in the way he holds himself. He tugs his Wolf medallion out to hang openly in front of his tunic, and raises his chin proudly, and rolls his shoulders back. Eskel gestures Aubry and Coën forward to flank his palfrey.

The gate guards see the Witchers and eye Jaskier dubiously. “Send word to the one who rules here,” Jaskier orders crisply, voice carrying over the noise of the small crowd near the gate. “I am Jaskier of Kaer Morhen, Consort to the White Wolf; I and my escort and companions require lodging for the night before we travel onward.”

Huh. _Viscount_ , he used to be. Eskel doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jaskier _use_ that rank before.

“Sire,” says the captain of the gate guard, saluting, and sends one of his men running into the city to summon - hm, this would be Baron Filip, if Eskel recalls correctly. He usually sends woollen cloth as tribute, and his reports are always both on time and crisply concise. And Eskel’s never heard of him causing any trouble for the nonhumans within Daevon’s walls. Insofar as Eskel approves of any noble sight unseen, he approves of Baron Filip.

The Baron himself shows up, puffing and red-faced, atop an ugly but sturdy-looking gelding, and slides down off the horse to go to one knee before Jaskier. Eskel sees Jaskier’s shock, but the bard covers it well before the Baron rises.

“We are honored to welcome you, sire,” Baron Filip says. “How may we serve the Warlord’s Consort?”

“We require lodging for the night,” Jaskier says. “We will travel onward in the morning.”

“It is my honor to provide my own home, humble as it may be,” Baron Filip says, bowing deeply, and Jaskier says something polite in return, and the baron re-mounts his horse to lead them through the streets. Jaskier rides beside him, making courteous small talk, and seems perfectly at ease until they’ve been installed in the guest wing of the baron’s palace.

Then he sags down into a chair and lets his head fall back with an indescribable noise. Ciri clambers into his lap, worried; Eskel leaves the other Witchers to secure the perimeter, and the elves to settle into their own guest room, and goes to join the bard.

“What’s wrong, Jas?” Ciri asks.

“Nothing’s really wrong, cub,” Jaskier says, smiling down at her and pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “I’ve just - well, I’ve never had to _use_ this shiny new title before, and I’m not used to having people bow and scrape to me. It feels very odd.”

“Huh,” Eskel says, and puts a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder in an attempt at moral support. Jaskier leans into the touch with a sigh. “You did good. And it _is_ your title to use.”

“Thanks,” Jaskier sighs. “Huh. Well, I’d better get used to it, I suppose. Ready for supper with the baron, cub? And you, o Warlord’s right hand?”

Eskel grimaces. “Do I have a choice?”

“Nope, if I’m doing the full Consort act, you have to be formal too.” Jaskier grins down at Ciri. “You feeling up to being the Warlord’s Heir, little menace? Or should we make your excuses, and have supper brought here for you and some bodyguards?”

Ciri, bless the girl, thinks about it seriously. “I’m tired,” she says at last, “but I can be courtly for a little while. Could I come to supper and leave early?”

“Very sensible, darling cub,” Jaskier tells her approvingly, and starts listing off things she should remember about how to be polite to a Kaedweni baron.

Eskel steps away and beckons Coën and Letho. “Stay with the cub.”

Letho nods. Coën smiles. “Does that mean we get to leave early too?”

“Definitely, you lucky bastards,” Eskel says, sighing. “And I get to make nice with Baron Filip.”

“Could just let the bardling talk his ear off,” Letho suggests.

“We’re supposed to _protect_ the Wolf’s people,” Eskel says, suppressing a smirk. Jaskier looks up and sticks out his tongue at them.

Letho sticks his tongue out right back, looking smug when he can stick it out further than Jaskier can. Eskel rubs a hand over his face. Coën pats him on the shoulder.

“C’mere, cub,” Eskel sighs. “Let’s get you cleaned up while the adults have a tongue-wagging contest.”

Ciri clambers off Jaskier’s lap with a giggle, and Eskel wraps an arm around her shoulders and smiles down at her. “They’re _silly_ ,” she says, with the air of someone confiding a great secret.

Eskel glances over to see that Cedric and Axel have joined the impromptu who-can-stick-his-tongue-out-the-furthest competition, and sighs. “Yes, cub, they are,” he says wearily. “Not you, though. You’re always a perfect model of composure.” He swoops her up and turns her upside-down, dangling her so her hair just brushes the floor, and Ciri whoops with laughter.

“Uncle _Eskel!_ ” she protests, through her giggles, and Coën rolls his eyes and relieves Eskel of his squirming burden, setting her back on her feet and herding her off towards the room she’s been given for the night.

Eskel hears him mutter, “Come along, cub, let’s let the children play,” but chooses to ignore that, thanks ever so.

*

Supper with the baron is, thankfully, not as painful as Eskel had expected, mostly because Jaskier charms the baron, the baron’s wife, all three of the baron’s children, and everyone else at the high table, without seeming to notice he’s doing it or put any effort into it at all. All Eskel has to do is nod and make polite listening noises when the baron’s cheerful wife says anything to him, and she doesn’t say much to _him_ at all, being far more interested in Jaskier and Ciri.

The uncomfortable bit comes when Ciri excuses herself from the table, begging their pardon with pretty words and promising that only the weariness of long travel could tear her from the baron’s company - those lessons from Jaskier and Milena are clearly having an effect, Eskel had no idea Ciri could be that eloquent - and heads off to bed with Coën and Letho right on her heels. Deprived of the adorable child to coo at, the baron’s wife turns to Eskel and apologizes for ignoring him.

“I did not catch your name properly, good sir,” she says, and Eskel gives it again.

“Eskel?” says the baron, eyes going wide as he leans forward to see around his wife. “ _The_ Eskel?”

“Far as I know there’s only one of me,” Eskel says, suddenly the center of attention at the high table and not enjoying it at all.

Baron Filip is apparently an observant and generous man, because he quite clearly changes his mind about whatever he was going to say next and instead says, “I wish to thank you, then, for sending a team of Witchers to deal with our kikimora problem, four years ago. I had not dreamed of so swift and efficient a response.”

“My duty, and my honor,” Eskel says, remembering a few of Jaskier’s lessons himself.

“Nevertheless, I am grateful,” Baron Filip says, and turns the conversation to something else with considerable grace. Eskel doesn’t heave a sigh of relief, but it’s a near thing.

That’s very nearly the last uncomfortable moment, though, until supper is over and everyone is dispersing to their rooms, and Baron Filip leans in to Jaskier and says, quietly enough he must think he won’t be overheard, “Is that truly Eskel Amber-Eyed, right hand of the Warlord?”

“It is, yes,” Jaskier says, voice commendably even though Eskel can see the amusement in his eyes.

“Have I offended him by not offering him due honors?” the baron hisses.

“Truly, you have not,” Jaskier says, putting a soothing hand on the man’s arm. “He much prefers quiet courtesy to loud praise, and is most at home in his lord’s shadow.” Which is remarkably accurate, actually. “You have done us all due honor, and I will mention your name to my beloved lord, and praise you to him,” Jaskier adds, more loudly, and Baron Filip goes entirely pink with delight; his wife squeaks and presses her hands over her mouth, eyes wide.

“To the _White Wolf?_ ” she whispers. Jaskier nods.

“To the White Wolf,” he says, voice warm with deep affection. “You have hosted his daughter and his consort and his good right hand; should he not know of you, that he may trust Daevon is held by one who knows his duty?”

The baron and his wife both smell of nervous happiness so strongly it makes Eskel’s nose ache, and Jaskier, thank the gods, bows to them and takes his leave, which means all the Witchers can do the same. Lyari and Neremyn and Dara chose to eat in the guest wing. Eskel’s only a _little_ jealous.

Still, it wasn’t _all_ unpleasant, and in the morning they head out, rested and reprovisioned, and several small children wave to them as they pass instead of squealing and hiding, and it’s...not bad. Not bad at all.

Though Eskel’s going to have to have a talk with Jaskier about saddling him with an epithet. _Eskel Amber-Eyed_. Not as bad as it could be, really. A little more flowery and poetic than he might have chosen, given a choice, but since it came from a poet, that’s only to be expected. Could be a lot worse.

He’s definitely not going to tell Jaskier that makes him feels sort of...pleasantly warm around the heart, to be so very _seen_.


	5. Chapter 5

Jaskier is very nearly bubbling over with excitement by the time they reach the elven lands and the wide fields which have been set aside for the summer festival. He’s written a new song for the occasion, which will be sung by _Witchers_ , and he’ll get to meet as many elves as his heart desires and hopefully ask them for their stories, and - best of all even though it has nothing to do with the festival - he’ll get to see Geralt again very, very soon.

He’s enjoyed the hell out of these peaceful weeks of travel, so different from the dreadful journey to Kaer Morhen that it’s not even worth comparing the two. Lyari and Neremyn have been good company; Dara is a delightful child, energetic and clever enough to keep up with Ciri, and with a view of the world different enough from hers to keep them both endlessly curious about each other. The Witchers, of course, are wonderful, and he’s enjoyed getting to know a few of the men he doesn’t spend much time with during the regular course of his duties: calm Ealdred with his tales of his dwarven friend (who Jaskier has made a note to invite to Kaer Morhen - sure a weapon merchant will find a market among witchers, and it would be good to make a connection with the dwarven folk), black-humored Letho with his astonishing soft spot for Ciri, Merten with his surprising devotion to Leobida (Witchers not being commonly religious, as far as Jaskier’s ever been able to tell), Stefan with his wild stories about pirate ships and distant islands.

And, of course, Eskel. Not that they _don’t_ spend a fair bit of time around each other in Kaer Morhen, but a lot of that time is because of their respective positions on the council, their duties, not just...quiet hours that they can fill with talking. Shared jokes beside a banked campfire. Helping each other ride herd on the little menace.

Cuddling.

Eskel’s nearly as pleasant to sleep beside as Geralt is, and puts up with Jaskier’s tendency to drape himself all over his bedmate like an affectionate octopus with good grace. He winds himself around Jaskier and makes low sleepy rumbling noises when his hair is stroked and tucks his nose into the curve of Jaskier’s neck when he’s properly asleep, breathing in and settling closer like Jaskier’s the best thing he’s ever smelled.

Jaskier’s caught himself brushing kisses against Eskel’s cheek at least a dozen times now. It feels so _natural_ that he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it until he’s done it, and they’re both a little startled every time, but it’s - it’s _Eskel_. Geralt’s right hand, his voice, his shadow, very nearly his other self. Dark where Geralt is pale, well-spoken where Geralt is taciturn, but at his heart just as _good_ , as noble and stubborn and dutiful and _glorious_ as Geralt is. The man Geralt trusts with his armies, his daughter, his consort, his own life.

Jaskier needs to talk to Geralt about this, since he’s reasonably sure the conversation has a good chance to end in something that might make all _three_ of them a little happier, but it probably ought to be held in person, not over a xenovox.

And even leaving that conversation aside, Jaskier misses Geralt like a missing _limb_. There’s no way he’s going back to Kaer Morhen by the same route - oh no, he’s portaling home, because he will not be spending another month away from his wolf, not for any reason short of all-out _war_ , thank you very much.

Hm. _Oh my lover, never leave me / be thou always at my side / never go, oh never grieve me / together let us live and die_. A bit maudlin, but perhaps good for a long winter’s night when tragic love ballads help pass the time.

He’s certainly not going to sing it when he finally sees Geralt again. He’s not going to sing _anything_ , unless it’s fucking well in _bed_. Hard to sing when his mouth is going to be occupied with kissing.

*

Jaskier has met elves before - not many, admittedly, and more part-elves than full ones, but there were several who gave guest lectures at Oxenfurt, and one elven lady who made the finest sweets in the city and therefore never had any trouble with bigots because her large and devoted clientele would have cheerfully maimed anyone who looked at her funny. And of course he’s just spent a couple of weeks with Lyari and Neremyn and Dara.

Filavandrel aen Fidhail isn’t much like any of the elves Jaskier has ever met before.

If Jaskier wasn’t the consort and beloved of the White Wolf, Warlord of the North, most feared man on the continent, then Filavandrel aen Fidhail would _easily_ be the most imposing man he’s ever met. As it is, he takes...probably third place, after Geralt anytime at all and Eskel when he’s truly angry. He’s tall and pale, proud and dignified, and he carries himself like the warrior-king he is.

_Technically_ , Jaskier probably outranks him. Eskel and Ciri _definitely_ do. But here on his own ground, as his guests, it would be the height of rudeness to expect him to bow to _them_ , so Jaskier bows to him, and Ciri at his side gives an absolutely perfect bow of her own - the lack of skirts makes curtseying a bit impractical. Eskel doesn’t bow, because he’s the Warlord’s right hand and doesn’t bow to _anyone_ , but he does nod deeply, and the other Witchers offer shallow bows, which is as courteous as Witchers ever are.

“Hail, strangers who may yet be friends,” Filavandrel says, which isn’t _quite_ accurate - Jaskier knows he’s met Eskel and Auckes before, at least - but does give a beautiful excuse for Lyari to step forward and bow deeply.

“Filavandrel aen Fidhail of the Silver Towers and the House of Feleaorn of the White Ships, may I present to you these friends?” she asks, and Filavandrel nods graciously, and she starts with the Witchers, since elves introduce the most important people last. She volunteered to do this - it was going to be Auckes, originally - and she does it with great grace and elegance.

There was quite a debate, back in Kaer Morhen, about who would be announced _last_. Jaskier won the debate, though not without some significant effort, and so Lyari ends her introductions with, “Jaskier of Kaer Morhen, Consort to the White Wolf. Princess Cirilla, daughter and heir of the Warlord of the North. And Eskel of the Wolf School, the White Wolf’s right hand, who speaks with the Wolf’s voice in his absence, and commands in the Wolf’s place.”

Eskel did _not_ want to be introduced as the most important person in the party, but Jaskier won the debate by pointing out that of the three of them, only Eskel can actually _command_ the Witchers of Kaer Morhen. Jaskier himself can only _ask_. Ciri _will_ command, someday when she’s full grown. But Eskel holds that power _now_ , and as such, outranks Jaskier and Ciri both.

This does, however, mean that it’s Eskel who has to actually _greet_ Filavandrel, while Jaskier and Ciri get to stare wide-eyed at the festivities. The formal part doesn’t start for another full day - it would have been very rude to arrive much later - but there’s already what looks like a market, and a dancing circle, and half a dozen groups of musicians scattered across the wide grounds. There’s also a small ocean of tents, and Filavandrel leads them to a set of eight set aside from all the others: one large tent and seven smaller ones, all clearly new. Eskel thanks him courteously; Filavandrel nods and sweeps away, and the Witchers flood into the tents, checking them for danger - Jaskier would sigh, but _Witchers_ , what can you do - and then unloading the packhorses with brisk efficiency.

It’s barely midafternoon. Jaskier surveys the hordes of elves already present, the stalls offering food and drink or selling elf-made goods, the cheerful chaos of it all, and beckons Coën, Letho, Cedric, and Axel.

“Ciri, darling, if you want to go and see the fair with Dara, you can,” he says. “But you need to keep at least one of these four in sight, alright?”

The four Witchers nod, accepting the almost impossible task without flinching, and Ciri squeals with glee and hugs Jaskier hard and goes tearing off in the direction that Lyari and Neremyn’s cart went, with four Witchers hard on her heels.

“...How a human child can have more energy than a Witcher, I have never understood,” Eskel says thoughtfully, draping an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders and watching her go.

“I recall my own cousins being equally as energetic at about the same age,” Jaskier says ruefully. “Think I should have sent six watchers with her?”

“It’ll probably be fine, she’s a good cub,” Eskel says. “Geralt won’t be here until tomorrow; do you want to go and wander about, too?”

“Desperately,” Jaskier admits. “Will you be my escort, and make sure _I_ don’t get lost?”

“Sure,” Eskel says, and Jaskier manfully resists the urge to take Eskel’s arm the way Milena takes Lambert’s, mostly because as funny as it might be, it would probably make Eskel uncomfortable. He also ignores the fact that Eskel beckons Aubry and Ealdred and Auckes to shadow them at a distance, because objecting to the presence of bodyguards is not a fight he’s going to win - and really, though he doesn’t expect any trouble, he _is_ a human in a gathering of elves, and there are a fair number of elves who don’t _like_ humans, for good and rational reasons. Having an escort of Witchers is probably a wise plan.

“Musicians first,” Jaskier decides, and Eskel puts an arm around his shoulders to make sure the crowds don’t separate them, and steers him towards the nearest clump of singers.

*

Jaskier enjoys the hell out of the rest of the afternoon. Many of the elves do give him slightly dubious looks, but between the Wolf medallion he wears on his chest and the Witcher at his side, most of them figure out who he is fairly quickly, and the awe and respect everyone here holds for the White Wolf is enough to spill over and include one young and harmless human without too much trouble. Jaskier listens to a dozen different elven musicians and tries three different types of _extremely_ good and very potent wine, eats a great many small tidbits that he can’t identify but that are all delicious, falls madly in love with an elven lute inlaid with such gorgeous designs that it looks too precious to touch and compliments its maker so lavishly that the poor man turns pink all the way up to the tips of his ears, joins a children’s circle dance with Ciri and Dara, and finally fetches up, grinning and exhausted and leaning heavily on Eskel, at the front of their tent again.

Filavandrel is waiting for them, looking rather friendlier than he did a few hours ago. “Your lord’s consort is entirely charming,” he says in Elder to Eskel, who chuckles.

“That he is,” he agrees in the same tongue.

“I understand the White Wolf will arrive tomorrow?” Filavandrel inquires.

“The White Wolf, his chief sorceress, the heir’s lady-in-waiting, and her consort,” Eskel confirms. No one had wanted to bother to have an argument about whether Lambert could come with Milena, so he won by default.

“We will begin the ceremony at sundown tomorrow, then, and welcome the White Wolf and his companions with all honor,” Filavandrel says, and gives Jaskier a long thoughtful look. Jaskier grins at him, still high on music and incredibly potent alcohol and _fun_.

“It is as well the Wolf did not choose a Cintran as his consort,” Filavandrel says at last. “And you are far too young to have had any hand in our exile.” It’s the first time he’s spoken _to_ Jaskier instead of _about_ him, and Jaskier bows deeply in return.

“I was too young, indeed,” he says, “and yet I regret my elders’ actions, which were cruel beyond belief. I am glad that your people have found sanctuary here, in my beloved lord’s lands, and should you ever desire my poor aid, I shall do all that is within my power, as my beloved lord would wish.”

Filavandrel actually smiles. “Truly, a bard,” he says. “Will you sing for us, bardling?”

“I and my companions will, and gladly,” Jaskier says.

Filavandrel’s eyebrows rise. “Your companions? You have convinced Witchers to sing?”

“He is _very_ convincing,” Eskel sighs.

“So he must be, indeed,” Filavandrel says, eyeing Jaskier speculatively. “Well. Be welcome to our festival, Jaskier of Kaer Morhen; I shall anticipate your performance eagerly.”

“I will do my utmost to make it worthy of your attention,” Jaskier says, and Filavandrel inclines his head and glides away, and Jaskier tugs Eskel into the tent and collapses back onto his bedroll with a huge sigh of relief.

“Whoof, is he always that intimidating?”

Eskel sits down next to him, chuckling. “He’s actually worse when he’s armed and furious.”

“Mmph,” Jaskier says, and rolls over to rest his head on Eskel’s leg. Eskel starts running his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, warm and soothing. “He led the fighting retreat out of Cintra, correct?”

“Correct,” Eskel confirms.

_Silver Filavandrel led them / the Lioness of Cintra in pursuit / hunted and harried and hindered / came the elven folk into the White Wolf’s lands…_ Hm. He’ll run that one past Geralt or Eskel before he goes too much farther with it. He doesn’t want to offend.

“Are you falling asleep, bard?” Eskel murmurs. “Or just composing?”

“Little of column A,” Jaskier says. “Can I nap a bit and then we can go figure out what supper is?” The long month of traveling has taken a _lot_ out of him, and as delightful as the afternoon at the festival has been, it was also _exhausting_. And dealing with Filavandrel takes a lot of concentration.

“Sleep,” Eskel says softly. “You are safe. I will wake you in a few hours.”

“Course I’m safe,” Jaskier mumbles, half-asleep already. “You’re here.”

“Hm,” says Eskel, and Jaskier laughs softly and lets himself doze off, Eskel’s fingers still moving gently through his hair.

*

A few hours’ nap is wonderfully rejuvenating, and Jaskier is feeling entirely refreshed when he wakes. Supper is apparently a fairly informal thing tonight, with long tables laden with food that Jaskier doesn’t recognize but is sure will be delicious, and the elves bear their food away to sit in little clusters beneath the trees or on grassy hillocks. Jaskier imitates them, taking a broad leaf to use as a plate and stacking a few pieces of anything that looks interesting on it, and then joins his Witchers and Lyari and Neremyn on a mossy bit of ground beneath a spreading oak tree. Ciri and Dara are some little ways away in a cluster of elven children, all of them laughing and talking over each other, and Jaskier is delighted to see Ciri beaming with joy, jostled and teased like she’s been part of the group forever.

“Cub’s looking happy,” Aubry observes, settling beside Jaskier. Eskel sits on Jaskier’s other side, and if he had to guess, he’d guess Ealdred was a little ways behind him. Darling overprotective Witchers.

“So she is,” he says. “We need more children at Kaer Morhen. Or she should be allowed to spend time with the trainees, perhaps.”

“Hm,” Eskel says, and he’s frowning when Jaskier looks at him. “Don’t want her to start thinking she’s going to have to go through the Trials,” he says after a moment. “Don’t know what they’d do to a girl, specially as she’s a mage. Don’t want to find out.” He shudders slightly, and Jaskier grimaces. If the Trials are as bad as described...yeah, Ciri’s never getting _near_ that. Bad enough that the Trials destroyed so many children over the years; even now that they’re not fatal, they’re not for Ciri.

“Alright,” Jaskier says thoughtfully, leaning against Eskel’s shoulder and eating a tidbit of something that he can’t identify but that tastes like summer fruits. “Still, the trainees should know her - they’ll serve her someday, after all.”

“Hm,” Eskel says, and Jaskier drops that tack.

“We could invite some of the children of the nobles who owe fealty to the Wolf,” he suggests instead. “And the elves of Filavandrel’s lands, and maybe some dwarves if you know of any who have children of the right age. Get everyone used to spending time together, and used to Ciri.”

Eskel winces a little. “There’s enough room in the keep,” he admits, “but do I want to imagine how much chaos a whole passel of noble children can create?”

“To be perfectly honest, no, you probably don’t,” Jaskier admits, laughing. “But it’ll be good for Ciri, and there’s a long tradition of noble children spending time in the household of their liege, especially if he has a child of the appropriate age.”

“We’ll discuss it with the Wolf,” Eskel sighs. “You know, life was a lot easier when all I had to worry about was the next monster.”

“Do you miss it?” Jaskier asks.

“Maybe a little,” Eskel admits. “It was simple.”

“Straightforward,” Aubry agrees. “Kill the monster, get the money, move on.”

“Lonely,” Coën adds, flopping down onto his back and lacing his hands together behind his head. Jaskier’s completely sure the Witcher is still paying most of his attention to Ciri, even if he can’t see her. “Got run out of a lot of towns, I remember that.”

“Yeah,” Ealdred puts in. “Got stiffed out of a lot of money, too. And people sure as hell didn’t start singing whenever I showed up.”

All the Witchers chuckle. “Yeah, that’s new,” Letho says. “Weird as hell. Nice, though.”

Jaskier preens. Eskel laughs softly and nudges his shoulder against Jaskier’s. “I wouldn’t go back,” he says. “It’s easy, looking back now, to remember the simplicity, and forget the - the blood, and the muck, and the people calling you filthy names, and the -” he hesitates, looks up at the stars as they slowly blink into view in the deepening blue of the sky. “The knowing you were going to die alone,” he says at last. “And no one but your brothers would remember you, and someday they’d be dead, too, and then no one would remember at all.”

Jaskier makes a soft, broken sound and cuddles closer to Eskel, hating every bit of the ancient pain in that sentence.

Coën grunts. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, that wasn’t...pleasant.”

“Right,” Jaskier says, deeply regretting having asked the question that set off this string of terrible memories. “It doesn’t sound pleasant.”

“It’s a hell of a lot better now,” Eskel says, patting Jaskier gently on the back. “Even if you do hang silly epithets on us.”

Jaskier grins, batting his eyes as adoringly as he can. “I’m quite fond of your amber eyes.”

“You get on with Ciri because you’re as much of a menace as she is,” Eskel grumbles.

“Guilty as charged,” Jaskier says, very pleased to have distracted Eskel from his unpleasant memories. “Also I’m very nearly as adorable as she is.”

Eskel chuckles. “Don’t sell yourself short, bard,” he mutters. Jaskier blinks at him for a moment, wondering if he could possibly have heard that correctly.

Talking to Geralt. Oh yes, that is _definitely_ something that needs to happen.

*

As the evening turns into a soft, breezy summer night, and everyone finishes their food, people begin to get up and wander about, stopping at other clusters of elves and speaking quietly to them. Some of the bolder elves come over to the Witchers, eyeing them with less trepidation than most humans would. Jaskier is very proud of his companions: they stay seated or lounging, so as not to get up and loom over the much slighter elves, and they answer questions almost graciously. Coën even invites the parents of some of the other elven children to sit with them, and after cautious glances at Lyari and Neremyn, most of them do so.

Jaskier himself actually comes in for more dubious scrutiny than the Witchers, which is a new and interestingly uncomfortable experience, for all that he understands _why_ the elves are uncomfortable with a human in their midst. He does his best to look young and harmless and be as charming as it’s possible to be, and between that and the presence of fourteen Witchers, eventually all the elves who stop by to see their interesting visitors start looking, at the very least, less worried about his presence.

Of course, at that point they start asking him questions. Jaskier doesn’t really mind being asked how the hell a Redanian viscount ended up as the Consort to the Warlord of the North; it’s a good story, really, even if he leaves out some of the more unpleasant bits, like the fact that he thought he was being sent to Kaer Morhen as a human sacrifice. _That_ certainly doesn’t need to be brought up. The rest of it, though, the year they spent getting to know each other and the invasion of noblewomen, the love potion’s interesting consequences and Princess Agata’s extremely unwise stabbing attempt; that all makes a good story, and Jaskier tells it as well as he can, eliciting laughter and winces and applause when he is done.

It’s good, but it’s _exhausting_. Jaskier is almost dead on his feet by the time the crowd finally starts to break up, heading for the tents, and Coën collects Ciri from where she’s fallen asleep in a heap of other children, so deeply unconscious that she doesn’t even stir when he gathers her up. Eskel loops an arm around Jaskier’s waist to keep him steady, and they make it back to the tent somehow or other.

“We need elves in Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier says as Eskel rolls him down onto the bedrolls. “And dwarves.”

“Alright,” Eskel says, tucking Ciri in next to Jaskier. “I’ll remember to tell Geralt tomorrow.” He slides under the blankets on Jaskier’s other side, curling around him protectively, and Jaskier cradles Ciri close and lets his eyes fall shut.

When he wakes up, Geralt is there at last.


	6. Chapter 6

Eskel wakes to the smell of lilacs and gooseberries, the unmistakable scent of Yennefer’s magic, and rolls over without bothering to get up as a portal opens in the middle of the tent - left carefully clear the night before for just this reason - and Geralt and Lambert and Milena step through, with Yennefer half a pace behind them. The portal closes again soundlessly.

Geralt hunkers down next to Eskel and smiles just a hair as Jaskier rolls over and gloms onto Eskel in his usual affectionate octopus sort of way. “See you’ve kept my cub and my lark safe,” he murmurs.

“Always,” Eskel replies, just as quietly.

Geralt hums and reaches out to run his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, and Jaskier turns into the caress with a soft formless sound, head resting on Eskel’s shoulder. Geralt’s smile grows wider, and he taps a finger against Jaskier’s lips.

“Mmm?” Jaskier says, and opens his eyes, blinking up at Geralt sleepily. The scent of contentment transmutes all of a sudden to the sweet, warm scent of honeyed bread - of _love_.

It’s...not dissimilar to how Jaskier has been smelling around Eskel for the last few weeks. _Stronger_ , purer, but not dissimilar.

Oh, that conversation _definitely_ needs to happen. But not now.

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, and Geralt leans down and brushes a very gentle kiss against Jaskier’s lips. Eskel thinks about pointing out the fact that they are kissing _right over his chest_ and then decides not to. Who is he to ruin a perfect moment, after all? And it’s not like watching them kiss is a hardship. Quite the contrary, really.

“Good morning,” Jaskier says as Geralt sits back on his heels, and disentangles himself from Eskel with a sweet smile and -

And a kiss brushed against Eskel’s cheek. Geralt’s eyebrows go up a fraction, but he doesn’t lose that tiny smile.

As soon as Jaskier is on his feet, he’s in motion, hugging Yennefer and Milena, ducking under Lambert’s very slow swipe to wrap an arm briefly around the Witcher’s waist and laugh, rummaging through the packs piled neatly in the corner to find new clothing for the day. Geralt offers Eskel a hand up, which Eskel takes, finding himself hauled not just to his feet but into a tight embrace. He hugs back, hard, not bothering to worry about what Lambert might think - the prickly asshole has toned down his teasing a bit since he took up with Milena, mostly because it’s so easy to tease _him_ now, though to be fair most of the other Witchers don’t give him too much shit, on account of Milena is a sweetheart.

“You look better,” Geralt says, as they let go of each other. “Get some sleep?”

“Lots,” Eskel says, grinning. “Letho had to carry me the whole way, like a sack of turnips.”

“Truth,” Jaskier chimes in instantly. “Dropped him at least once a day, and Eskel didn’t even twitch.” Everyone in the tent knows he’s lying. Yennefer snorts and shakes her head. Milena giggles. Lambert guffaws, loud enough to wake Ciri, who sits up, looks around, and shrieks with glee, leaping for her father, who scoops her up and whirls her about before pulling her tightly to his chest as she clings to his neck.

“Hey there, cub,” Eskel hears him whisper. “I missed you.”

Eskel and Lambert both pretend they can’t hear anything, turning their backs on the reunion to give Geralt and Ciri a little privacy, illusory as it may be. “How fares the keep?” Eskel asks.

“Well, the good news is, most of it’s still standing,” Lambert says at once, with a commendably straight face. Eskel puts a hand over his eyes.

“Why did I miss you assholes again?”

“No idea,” Lambert says cheerfully.

“All’s well,” Yennefer says mildly, whacking Lambert on the shoulder. Lambert pretends to wince, mostly so that Milena will lean in and kiss him. “Vesemir’s holding the fort. Trials are over; all the trainees passed. Some tribute, some minor crises, nothing that couldn’t be solved with a fireball or a couple of Witchers.”

Eskel rubs his forehead. Milena, giggling, pats him on the arm. “I left you notes,” she says, and Eskel bows over her hand.

“ _You_ are definitely my favorite,” he assures her. Lambert looks torn between bristling because Eskel is being nice to Milena and looking vindicated because Eskel is being nice to Milena.

“Here,” Jaskier says, pushing something into Eskel’s arms - a pile of clothing, it turns out. “Do you know if there’s somewhere to bathe around here? Obviously Yen and Milena smell lovely, but I smell like I’ve been on the road for a month and only bathed twice a week, for some odd reason.”

“Smell fine to me,” Eskel says mildly, because at the moment Jaskier mostly smells like love and happiness, which are very good smells.

“ _Witchers_ ,” Jaskier sighs, all fond exasperation.

Yennefer chuckles and conjures a bath, already full of steaming water. “You _do_ reek, little flower,” she says, and tosses Jaskier a bar of soap. Jaskier fumbles it twice before catching it, and gives Yennefer a frown, though his scent is full of easy joy.

“ _Reek_ ,” he says, all mock indignation and offended propriety. “My dear Yen, I would never do anything so plebian as _reek_. I am redolent of the rich odors of the road, my travels laying their imprint upon me!”

“You reek,” Yennefer says flatly, but there’s a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. Jaskier sticks out his tongue at her and turns his back with a flourish, heading for the bath. Eskel sets his little heap of clothing down on the bedroll and stretches.

“I’m going to make sure everyone else is up,” he says. “Think you can ride herd on the little menace, Wolf?”

“Hm,” Geralt says, and looks down at Ciri thoughtfully. “Send in backup,” he decides after a moment, making Ciri laugh in delight.

“Will do,” Eskel promises, and steps out into a truly beautiful summer morning.

*

He finds a comfortable spot to sit, a tree root that makes a sort of impromptu chair, and the other Witchers apparently have found a stream and decided to have a water fight, from the noise. They come trailing back to the tents about half an hour past dawn, dripping and grinning unrepentantly. Eskel has no compunctions about sending Letho and Coën in to help with the little menace; _he_ is staying right here in his little patch of sunshine, basking quietly, thank you very much.

Geralt’s here, so Eskel has no duties at all just now, and can take a few minutes to just...relax.

Ciri emerges after a while, in a very nice dress with her hair put up in an elaborate braid, Letho and Coën and Milena and Lambert trailing her. “Uncle Lambert did my hair,” she confides when Eskel compliments her. Eskel grins at Lambert, who looks somewhere between sheepish and proud. He settles on proud when Milena rests a hand on his arm and smiles warmly up at him.

Getting used to Lambert being _happy_ most of the time took a bit of work, honestly, but Eskel can’t deny it’s sort of sweet.

“Papa said I could show Milena the festival,” Ciri says.

“You should do that, then,” Eskel says, and when she turns away he beckons Cedric and Axel to follow the party. Lambert’s good, but his attention is going to be divided, and the little menace is _fast_ when she wants to be.

Five Witchers should be enough to keep her and Milena out of trouble, though, since Milena is a sensible girl and will probably stick close to Lambert without any objections.

Yennefer emerges next, declaring her intention to go and find the elven mages, and Eskel sends Ealdred and Stefan after her - she can take care of herself, but better safe than sorry, and Ealdred has some healer training while Stefan spends a lot of time with Seraphina, the sorceress who attached herself to the Crane School a while back, so they might actually get something out of whatever company Yennefer manages to find. He sends everyone else off, too; Jaskier can’t get into too much trouble in a tent with Geralt, after all.

Eskel figures Geralt and Jaskier may well want a little time alone, and is therefore rather surprised when Jaskier calls, “Bath’s yours, Eskel! Yen spelled it hot but I’m not sure how long that’s going to last.”

Well alright then. Eskel isn’t going to turn down a spelled-hot bath.

Geralt is, as Eskel had expected, lounging against a rolled-up bedroll with Jaskier, half-dressed and kiss-mussed, in his lap, and the whole tent smells of happiness and love and lust. Eskel rolls his eyes at them fondly and heads for the bath, dropping clothes behind him carelessly.

He’s a little startled when the lust smell gets _stronger_. That’s...interesting.

“Hm,” says Geralt, thoughtfully.

“Oh, hush, you,” Jaskier says. Eskel glances over under cover of reaching for the soap, and sees that Jaskier is still comfortably draped across Geralt’s lap, but is watching Eskel with a thoughtful look on his face. “I’ve gotten used to the hot springs, but this _isn’t_ the hot springs, and I’m sitting on one unreasonably attractive man while another one wanders about naked in front of me. Can you really blame me?”

“ _Hm_ ,” says Geralt, and - well - Eskel didn’t really _mean_ to have this conversation today, or like this, but apparently that’s what’s happening.

He’s not quite sure how to _start_ the conversation, now. It was easier to bare his heart to Geralt when they were on opposite ends of a xenovox, with nothing else to hear but the vast expanse of the sky. He could bare his _throat_ \- has, before, after a sparring match, or years and years ago in a shared too-small bed - but his heart is a different matter.

Jaskier, bless and curse the man, starts it for him, and as always, in a direction Eskel didn’t quite expect. “What does Eskel smell like?”

Geralt and Eskel both blink at him. “...Like Eskel,” Geralt says at last.

Jaskier grins and shakes his head. “Thought so. You’ve spent so much time around each other, you don’t really pay attention to what goes _into_ that, do you, either of you?”

Eskel frowns. It’s quite true that he doesn’t try to _parse_ Geralt’s scent very often, except for being amused by the strength of the love-smell every time Geralt sees Jaskier. And Witchers are a little harder to parse than humans anyhow, their emotions more muted, less _loud_.

“I’ve got a theory,” Jaskier continues, “and then I have a whole bunch of questions that you’re going to have to not just hum at me about, alright?”

“Hm,” says Geralt, and Jaskier sighs and rubs his forehead. Eskel grins. People always underestimate how much of a little _shit_ Geralt is under all the glowering.

“Humor me,” he says. “Both of you. Close your eyes. Geralt, if you didn’t _know_ Eskel - what does he smell like?”

Eskel goes quite still. He smells like road dust and old sweat and soap, at the moment, but that’s not what Jaskier’s asking. And Geralt, uncharacteristically obedient, closes his eyes and turns his head and breathes in, slow and deep, and his forehead wrinkles a little.

Jaskier puts a gentle finger over Geralt’s lips. “Eskel?” he says quietly. “What do _we_ smell like? If we were strangers?”

Eskel closes his eyes and breathes in.

Jaskier is easy: warm affection, sweet love, the richness of lust, and under all that the scent of young, healthy male human, mixed with lute rosin and Triss’s best unscented soap. _Jaskier_ , unmistakable and unforgettable.

Geralt, though. Eskel hasn’t really _thought_ about Geralt’s scent in so long. It’s just - _Geralt_. But Jaskier asked, so… The faintly inhuman scent of a Witcher, stronger than for any other of their kind. Leather and sword oil, steel and silver. And over that? Happiness. Lust, faint but present.

Love.

Love smells like honey on warm bread, and Eskel’s been smelling it for _years_ without noticing, only noticed it when Jaskier fell headlong into their lives and it got immeasurably stronger. But it’s always been there, since the day they woke from their Trials and Eskel _could_ smell anything at all.

Eskel opens his eyes and meets Geralt’s. Geralt looks almost as startled as Eskel feels, which is something. Though - how did _Geralt_ manage to miss how _Eskel_ feels? It’s not like Eskel has been subtle about his devotion.

...Though Geralt is definitely the sort of self-deprecating asshole who would think Eskel’s devotion no more than brotherly affection, because he has a hard time _believing_ people love him, unless the people in question are as openly and aggressively affectionate as Ciri and Jaskier. So yeah, that makes a certain bitter sense, that he never noticed.

Jaskier says, voice low and soft and not so much interrupting the moment as emphasizing it, “So Eskel’s been letting me sleep on him for weeks, and I keep catching myself kissing his cheek, because it feels so damn natural. And I know you remember the conversation we had before I agreed to be your consort, my wolf; and the one the night you agreed to let me come to this festival. So.” Eskel is _very_ curious as to what those conversations consisted of. Geralt hums and nods a little.

“Tell me,” Jaskier says, still soft and coaxing, like he’s - hells, like he’s dealing with a pair of wolves, and is trying not to get bitten. “What are you smelling?”

Eskel stands up, dripping, and steps out of the bath to cross the tent and go to his knees beside his - his beloved lord, meeting his eyes again squarely. “You never said a word, Wolf.”

Geralt smiles, small and crooked. “Neither did you.”

Eskel considers that. “Fair,” he allows at last. “Thought you might have figured it out, what with the whole -” he waves a hand to encompass the last couple of decades of chaos - “Warlord’s right hand thing.”

Geralt chuckles very softly. “Me,” he says. “Figure out an emotion that isn’t rubbed in my face.”

Eskel snorts. “Alright,” he says. “Suppose that was a bit much to ask.”

Jaskier, he notes out of the corner of his eye, has his hands clutched to his chest and an expression like a man witnessing - well, witnessing an epic declaration of true love, all big dewy eyes and slightly parted lips and a flush high on his cheeks. It’d be a shame to disappoint him, but Witchers aren’t really prone to big romantic declarations…

Except around Jaskier, apparently. Eskel sighs a little, and meets Geralt’s eyes again, and very deliberately tips his chin up, baring his throat, baring his heart. Jaskier sucks in a sharp, astonished breath. Geralt’s eyes go very wide. “Here I am, Wolf,” Eskel says quietly. “Yours. Always have been. Always will be.” He slants a glance over at Jaskier, and smiles a little, and adds, “And your lark is fucking Witcher _catmint_ , you know.”

Jaskier burbles a delighted little laugh. Geralt snorts, and then all the amusement drains out of him, replaced by something painfully soft and sweet, and he reaches up to cup his hand over Eskel’s scarred cheek. “My good right hand,” he says quietly. “Beloved. Always.” And his hand curls around the nape of Eskel’s neck, and he pulls gently, and Eskel braces a hand on Geralt’s shoulder and leans down into the first kiss they’ve shared in godsdamned fucking _decades_.

It is a very, very good kiss.

Eskel sits back, several minutes later, and is rather flattered by the expression of utter contentment on Geralt’s face, the way his scent is pure honey-sweet _love_ and little else. Jaskier is beaming, and also smelling so vividly of love and lust that it’s frankly distracting. Eskel considers for a moment, then shrugs to himself and reaches out to trace a finger down Jaskier’s cheek. Jaskier licks his lips and the lust smell spikes even stronger. Geralt rumbles a very contented noise. Which is permission, Eskel knows - and apparently Jaskier knows, too, because he leans forward eagerly, one hand coming up to lace through Eskel’s hair, and Eskel laughs, low and helpless, and kisses the bard.

It is also a very good kiss.

Geralt is making a low happy rumbling noise deep in his chest when they finally break apart, and now all _three_ of them smell like lust, vivid and rich and overwhelming and underlaid with honey-sweet love.

There’s a long, surprisingly calm silence, and Eskel closes his eyes to savor it: Geralt’s hand warm on the nape of his neck, Jaskier’s fingers gently carding through his hair, Geralt’s shoulder broad and sturdy beneath one of Eskel’s hands and Jaskier’s cheek soft beneath the other.

It is, naturally, Jaskier who breaks the silence, though his voice is low and soft and he smells like love and lust and happiness so strongly Eskel thinks he might get drunk off the sheer sweetness of it. “We should probably postpone the rest of this conversation until we’re back in Kaer Morhen,” he says softly. “Much as I would like to continue it now.”

“Sensible,” Eskel sighs, and opens his eyes. Jaskier is smiling at him. So is Geralt. “Until Kaer Morhen, then.”

“Hm,” Geralt says, and pulls Eskel in for a brief, dry, shockingly good kiss. “Yes.”

“Right,” Eskel says. He feels rather as if the foundations of his world have been pulled out from under him, rearranged to be substantially sturdier, and re-inserted beneath his feet. “I’ll just finish bathing, then.”

“Probably wise,” Jaskier agrees. “Our hosts might object if you decide to wander about naked. _I_ wouldn’t, mind you.”

“Lambert’d never let me live it down,” Eskel says, and Geralt huffs a very quiet laugh and lets his hand fall away from Eskel’s neck, and Eskel stands and goes to finish his bath.

Jaskier leans back against Geralt’s chest and begins to sing softly, a tune Eskel’s never heard before, sweet and slow. “ _There is sunlight in your hair, oh my darling, oh my dear / there is sunlight in your hair, shining bright as molten gold / what do I need with the stars and the moon / when I have the sun in my arms to hold…_ ”

“I like that one,” Geralt rumbles as Eskel dries himself off.

“Mm, so do I,” Jaskier says, sounding very smug, and Eskel makes a mental note to ask about that - back at Kaer Morhen.

*

Eskel has to admit he’s slightly taken aback by the wave of _awe_ that spreads out around them as he and Geralt and Jaskier walk through the festival grounds. All the Witchers have been received with a slightly wary appreciation, but the elves see the White Wolf and their eyes go wide and their scents go shocked and they stop whatever they’re doing and _stare_. And they don’t know how keen Witcher hearing is, because Eskel - and, presumably, Geralt - can hear every hissed whisper, every _White Wolf_ and _the Warlord!_ and _Dana Meadbh, it’s him_.

Geralt’s shoulders are tense, but he keeps his expression smooth and as neutral as he ever does, and when Jaskier nudges him, he nods to the people who dare to greet him.

The tension isn’t properly broken, though, until a small child, too young for Eskel to tell their gender, comes running out from the crowd, their mother just a hair too slow to catch them, and fetches up at Geralt’s feet, holding something up in both hands. Geralt goes down on one knee, smiling just a little, and the child shoves the toy closer to him. “Look!” they lisp - Eskel’s never heard someone _lisp_ in Elder before. “It’s a wolf! Like you!”

The toy is, in fact, a rather battered rendition of a wolf, done in what was probably white fabric that has now been played with hard enough to turn it grey.

“So it is,” Geralt says, gently, in the same tongue. “Has it a name?”

“ _Wolf_ ,” says the child, in the tone that only small children can master, that implies the question is so utterly foolish as to hardly deserve an answer. Eskel sees Geralt’s shoulders shake with silent laughter.

“Of course,” he says.

“Wolves howl,” the child informs Geralt quite seriously. “Like this!” And they tip their little head back and make a sound that’s really nothing like a wolf’s howl at all.

Jaskier has one hand braced on Geralt’s shoulder and the other plastered over his mouth, and he’s shaking with the effort to not laugh. Eskel sympathizes. This is _painfully_ adorable.

“Well done,” Geralt says, and Eskel can taste his amusement on the air.

“Now you!” says the child. Eskel bites his own lip, hard, to keep the laughter in. Geralt hesitates, but the child is staring up at him with big brown eyes, hopeful and trusting, and Eskel knows well before Geralt sighs that he’s going to give in. He never could resist Ciri when she did that, either.

But then Geralt glances up over his shoulder, and Eskel sees the glint in his eye and realizes he should have run when he had the chance. “Wolves howl better with a pack,” Geralt informs the child solemnly. “Do you think my kinsman should help me?”

“Yes,” the child breathes, eyes wide and delighted. Geralt reaches back without looking and snags Eskel’s wrist before he can escape, pulling him forward.

“ _Geralt_ ,” Eskel says, but now the child is looking at _him_ , and Eskel rubs his forehead and sighs, “Fine.” Geralt looks up at him with a crooked, tiny smile that reminds Eskel almost painfully of the pranks they used to pull, decades ago before the Trials changed everything, and Eskel finds himself grinning back. Jaskier is watching both of them with a sort of wild delight in his eyes.

Geralt tilts his head back and howls, clear and fierce, and Eskel joins him, their voices twining together like true wolves’ calls beneath the moon. The child claps their hands in glee, bouncing in place and almost losing their grip on their toy wolf.

As the sound winds down, Eskel hears three more howls echoing from distant corners of the festival: Lambert and Aubry, probably confused as all hell, and Ciri’s high note far above them all. This’ll be fun to explain. But the child is so happy, and the older elves have all lost some of that tense awe. Something about seeing the White Wolf indulging a child, Eskel suspects, has made him a much more _approachable_ figure, far less mythical.

The child’s mother ventures out of the crowd to gather the child up, propping them on her hip and giving Geralt an apologetic smile. “Thank you, White Wolf,” she says.

Geralt stands and gives her a little nod. “It was my pleasure,” he says. “I have a child, too.”

The woman’s eyes light up, and she says, “Little Ciri! She is a delight, so very courteous and friendly!”

Probably only another Witcher could have heard Geralt’s baffled mutter of _Courteous?_ , but he nods again. “I am very proud of her,” he agrees, “as you ought to be of your child’s courage.”

That gets him a grin, and the woman asks, hopefully, “Would you like to meet my kinfolk?”

“I would be honored,” Geralt says, sounding - to Eskel at least - rather startled. Well, that’s fair; people don’t usually ask the White Wolf to come and meet their families.

They’re surrounded by cheerful elves, and Eskel has somehow managed to acquire a small child on his hip and another sitting on his boot, when Filavandrel finally shows up.

The elven leader is far too dignified to laugh at them, but Eskel rather thinks he wants to. Which...might be fair, all things considered. Geralt, too, looks far less imposing with a small child on each shoulder and Jaskier sitting at his feet teaching a cluster of young elves how to do a Toussainti braid.

“I regret I must steal you from this important discussion,” Filavandrel says, “but the ceremony will begin soon.” He’s very clearly suppressing a smile, and Eskel decides that that’s - fine, actually. The elves are the White Wolf’s people, under his protection; they _shouldn’t_ fear him, nor his Witchers.

And for a small wonder, there’s a pretty good chance that they _won’t_ , after this.

To steal a line from Geralt: _Hm_.


	7. Chapter 7

The ceremony is _utterly fascinating_. Jaskier kind of wishes he could take notes, but that would probably be rude. It’s a little bit religious and a little bit courtly, with speeches and a song that all the elves clearly know by heart and a short dance performed by all the elven parents and their children, and altogether different from any fair or ball he’s ever been at before.

Filavandrel introduces Geralt and Eskel, Jaskier and Ciri, and there’s a round of cheering that goes on for quite a startling amount of time.

And then Jaskier beckons the Witchers of his choir, and they sing for their supper. It’s a tale of the White Wolf, of course, but also of Filavandrel aen Fidhail and his courage, and of the undaunted spirits of the elves who made their way to the safety of the Warlord’s lands. The chorus is in Elder. The Witchers keep tune and time alike, and stamp the rhythm of the chorus like drumbeats. Jaskier’s quite proud of it, and of his Witcher chorus, and prouder when they are greeted with enthusiastic applause. Several elves attempt to howl as Geralt and Eskel did, with mixed success; many others begin chanting _Gwynbleidd, Gwynbleidd_ : the White Wolf, in the Elder tongue. Jaskier sits down, beaming.

The elf who’s been seated next to Jaskier down at the foot of the table, a dark-haired man with impressive scars, leans in as Filavandrel gestures for the food to be brought out - vast platters of the same delicious, mysterious tidbits as the night before. “I am given to understand that it was your influence which brought the Warlord to our festival this year; I must thank you for that. Most of us have never seen the White Wolf before. He has been nearly a myth. Now we have seen his face, and know that he is real.”

“Huh,” Jaskier says. “You’re very welcome, I’m sure. And I went through something like the reverse of that, back when I first met him.”

“Oh?” the elf says, clearly interested.

“I’d heard a lot of really nasty rumors about him being a monster,” Jaskier explains. “Obviously they were bullshit, but I didn’t know that at the time. And then I met him, and he turned out to be…” He glances up the table at Geralt, who is seated next to Filavandrel and doing a fairly good job of looking calm and approachable as various elves come forward to speak to him or their leader. “Well. Magnificent.”

“I would be very interested to hear that story in full,” says the elf, and holds out a hand. “I am Yaevinn, by the way.”

“Jaskier, but you knew that,” Jaskier says, clasping Yaevinn’s hand warmly. “And I can talk your ear off if you’d like, my friend, but only if you’re sure.”

“I am something of a historian,” Yaevinn says, smiling. “Firsthand accounts of such important events as the Warlord of the North meeting his Consort are the sorts of things we _live_ for.”

“...A historian,” Jaskier says slowly, starting to smile. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in coming to Kaer Morhen for a few years? We’ve been wanting someone to write the history of the White Wolf, you see.”

Yaevinn’s eyes light up. “You are quite serious? I would be honored beyond words by such an opportunity.”

It is, so far as Jaskier can tell, actually a _perfect_ opportunity. It would put an elf in Kaer Morhen - maybe more than one, if Yaevinn has kinfolk who would like to come along - and it will get a history written which tells the tale of the White Wolf the way _Kaer Morhen_ knows it, the way that depicts Geralt as the hero he is.

“Completely serious,” he says. “I would of course have to ask my beloved lord -”

Geralt, at the other end of the table, lifts his head, and Jaskier meets his eyes. Geralt flicks his gaze to Yaevinn, frowns briefly in thought, and then nods sharply before turning his attention back to Filavandrel.

“Right, that was simple; you’d be welcome, if you would care to come and be our historian for a while,” Jaskier says, grinning at Yaevinn.

“That was very impressive,” Yaevinn says thoughtfully. “You must know him well, and he you, to speak so without words.”

Jaskier nods. “I suppose so,” he says. “He holds my heart, and I have at least a part of his; I do not think it could be so, if we did not know each other surpassing well.”

“You are an odd human,” Yaevinn says. “But perhaps only an odd human could be a fit mate to the White Wolf.”

Jaskier considers that. “I think you’re probably right,” he decides at last. “But if so, I am very happy to be odd.”

*

The festivities go on late into the night, so late that it’s pretty much morning by the time Filavandrel finally rises and speaks the words to end the ceremony. Jaskier is swaying on his feet, though he has the presence of mind to bow to Yaevinn and vow that he will be welcome whenever he arrives at Kaer Morhen. Yaevinn grins and promises to make his way to the keep before autumn.

Eskel appears out of the darkness as Jaskier turns towards where he thinks their tents are, and loops an arm around Jaskier’s waist. Jaskier leans against him, hard, and Eskel chuckles.

“Do you need to be carried, lark?”

_Two_ Witchers calling him ‘lark.’ Jaskier may well die of endearment-induced heart palpitations. “ _Definitely_ ,” Jaskier says, and Eskel picks him up easily, and makes his way through the crowd of elves at a swift walk, catching up with Geralt after a few moments. Geralt is carrying Ciri, her head nestled against his shoulder; she’s clearly fast asleep. Milena is awake, but is nestled in Lambert’s arms contentedly, and Lambert looks like the cat who got the canary, the cream, and the fish meant for supper too, which is usually how he looks when he has Milena in his arms. They’re really quite _distressingly_ sweet sometimes. And, to Jaskier’s vast amusement, Ealdred is carrying Yen.

“Too much wine,” Ealdred murmurs to Eskel as they meet, and Yen, blearily, mutters, “Vile calumny!” without raising her head from Ealdred’s shoulder. Jaskier laughs.

They have to rearrange who gets which tent, a bit, mostly so that Lambert and Milena can have one of the smaller ones to themselves, and Yen another; but Eskel deals with that, soft orders that Jaskier only half pays attention to, and the long and short of it is that Jaskier ends up being set down in the largest tent, sandwiched comfortably between Geralt and Eskel, with Ciri on Geralt’s other side.

It’s very warm, and very pleasant, and Jaskier falls asleep with a smile on his face.

*

They are all up late the next morning - Yen doesn’t emerge from her tent until nearly noon - but the festival is going strong, and Jaskier thinks he has rarely spent a more pleasant day than this: wandering about looking at the various tents and eating little tidbits and sipping at potent, sweet elven wine, watching Ciri dance and play with the other children. Most of the Witchers have been given liberty to explore without needing to act as bodyguards, now that Geralt is here; Letho and Coën and Cedric and Axel shadow Ciri, and Jaskier himself is kept firmly between Geralt and Eskel the whole time. This is not a hardship in the _least_.

He maybe takes a little too much pleasure in holding little sweet tidbits out for Eskel to eat directly from his fingers, or in lifting the cups of elven wine to Geralt’s lips and seeing those golden eyes go dark with pleasure and amusement, but really, who could blame him? _Two_ gorgeous Witchers, all his! And they seem to find his antics entertaining, at least.

He’s still adjusting to the revelations of yesterday, to be perfectly honest. His bardic-trained heart can barely stand the sheer _romance_ of it all: the Warlord’s right hand, who has loved him unceasingly for _decades_ , finally admitting his feelings, baring his heart with stunning courage, and being met with a matching confession of devotion - this is the sort of thing of which great love ballads are made, and Jaskier is _definitely_ going to write one, even if he only ever sings it in private, for Geralt and Eskel and himself. ‘ _Lead me, my beloved lord, and I shall follow ever / I shall not fail you while I live, while blood runs in my veins / I shall not cease to love you till the stars shall fall from heaven’ / so spake he, never dreaming that his lord should feel the same - / ‘Most trusted and beloved’ said the lord whom he had pledged to / ‘all that I have and am lies in your hands and always will / with you beside me, there is nothing in this world that we cannot do / and though the sky may fall, be sure that I shall love you still.’_ Not that Geralt was _quite_ that eloquent, but artistic license is what being a bard is _about_!

Another man, Jaskier suspects, might begin to doubt his _own_ place in his lover’s affections, now that he knows that Geralt and Eskel have loved each other for quite literally twice as long as Jaskier’s been alive at _least_ , but Jaskier’s not worried. He knows Geralt adores him, he’s pretty sure _Eskel_ adores him, and he’s...if Geralt is the lyrics to the song that is their relationship, without which there _is_ no song, and Eskel is the steady drumbeat which keeps the singers together and in time, then Jaskier himself is the melody, bringing words and rhythm together into something beautiful. He’s pretty sure Geralt and Eskel would never have actually _admitted_ their love without his prodding, and knowing that he’s brought such happiness to _both_ of them is a warm bubbly feeling like sitting in a hot spring, half soused on Yen’s very good wine, wrapped in Geralt’s arms. Which is a very specific metaphor.

Fuck it, Jaskier’s just _happy_ , is all. Geralt’s here, and Eskel’s here, and they love each other, and they love _him_ , and he loves _them_ , and it’s a beautiful summer day and there’s music and food and drink and dancing, and Ciri is off making friends, and he almost feels like his joy has made him light enough to _fly_. But he’s anchored by Geralt and Eskel, kept safe between them, right where he belongs, and so instead of flying he sets off to enjoy the festival to the fullest measure.

Jaskier sings with as many elven musicians as will let him - which is most of them, flatteringly enough - and teaches several of them the chords to the _Ode to Witchers_ when they ask. He joins a whirling, lightfooted dance that ends up being _far_ too fast for him, and stumbles out of the dancing to land against Eskel’s chest as the Witcher laughs, catching him easily. He talks Geralt and Eskel into dancing - well, sort of dancing. Sparring without swords, moving so fast their limbs blur, whirling around each other as they strike and parry and draw apart again. It’s mesmerizingly beautiful, and Jaskier isn’t the only one who thinks so; by the time the Witchers are done, they have attracted the attention of what seems to be every elf at the festival, and the applause when they step apart is thunderous.

Jaskier claps as hard as anyone else, of course. _Gods_ , but he’s never quite gotten used to how _fast_ Witchers are when they want to be. It’s gorgeous and intimidating and glorious, and maybe ought to be put into a ballad. _His sword a blur, he faced the beast / as fast as it and faster / it struck and found not flesh but steel / lay waiting for its jaws…_

“You’re composing again,” someone says from beside him, and Jaskier turns from watching Geralt and Eskel talk to the elves who have flocked onto the field to ask them questions, and finds Lyari at his shoulder.

“Is it that obvious?”

Lyari laughs. “I’ve learned to recognize the look, my friend. You wear it so often.”

Jaskier grins. “I suppose I do, but can you blame me, with a muse like _that_?” He gestures at Geralt, who has taken his shirt off, because of course he has. Eskel has an arm around Geralt’s shoulders and is laughing at something one of the elves has said, and they are really _terrifyingly_ lovely. Geralt, of course, is a stunningly beautiful man, really the peak of masculine perfection, and Eskel is, to be perfectly frank, just about exactly as handsome, and so now Jaskier has _two_ just distressingly attractive men to ogle, and he thinks this might be what the phrase _embarrassment of riches_ means.

“I suppose not,” Lyari allows.

“Would you like to meet Geralt?” Jaskier asks. “I promise he doesn’t bite.”

Lyari’s eyes go a little wide, but she nods, and Jaskier ushers her across the field. Eskel sees them coming and murmurs something to Geralt, who turns to meet them and nods politely to Lyari, regal despite his dishevelment.

“Lyari, the White Wolf, Geralt of the Wolf School; Geralt, Lyari, whose son is Ciri’s new best friend.”

Geralt nods. “She is very fond of Dara.” His lips quirk. “ _Loudly_ fond.”

Jaskier snorts. Ciri is not subtle in either her affection or her displeasure; never has been and likely never will be. She definitely talked Geralt’s ear off yesterday about her new friend, the archgriffin, and everything in between.

“You should come up to Kaer Morhen,” Eskel suggests, leaning hard on Geralt and grinning at his put-upon expression. “Make it part of your route, perhaps; Ciri’d be overjoyed to see Dara every year.”

Geralt nods. “You would be welcome.”

Lyari gives him a shy smile. “We would be honored, White Wolf, even as we are honored that your daughter has chosen to befriend our son.”

“Ciri’s a good judge of character,” Geralt says, shrugging. “So’s Jaskier. So’s Eskel. They say you’re welcome, so you are.”

Jaskier can feel his ears going red. Eskel looks faintly embarrassed, too.

Lyari smiles wider. “Then we will come, and happily. Dara will be overjoyed.”

*

It’s Eskel who leads them over to the luthier’s stall, where the stunningly beautiful lute still hangs on display. The stall-keeper hurries out when he sees them, beaming. Arel, his name was, if Jaskier remembers correctly. “You must teach me that song,” he insists, pulling Jaskier over and installing him on a small stool with a goblet of wine, and two more goblets for the Witchers. “The one you sang last night - the one your _Witchers_ sang.”

Jaskier grins at him. “I would be glad to do so,” he says. “Unfortunately I have only one of my chorus with me today, however.”

Arel glances at Eskel, who looks rather like he has suddenly realized he made a mistake and would like to retract the last five minutes or so and try them again, and Geralt, who looks deeply amused behind his characteristic glower. “The White Wolf...does not sing?”

Geralt suddenly looks _panicked_ rather than amused. Jaskier laughs. “No,” he says, deciding to be merciful for once. “He doesn’t sing, more’s the pity. _Lovely_ voice, but alas!”

Arel laughs. “Ah, is that not always the way of it. But Lord Eskel does?”

Eskel winces. Jaskier shakes his head a little. “Less of the _lord_ ,” he murmurs, knowing the Witchers can still hear it. “He doesn’t like fuss.” Louder, he adds, “He’s been kind enough to join the singing, yes; mostly because Ciri asked.”

Arel mouths the words _Doesn’t like fuss_ rather baffledly, but nods.

“In any case,” Jaskier says, “The song doesn’t _need_ to be sung in chorus - it should work perfectly well with a single voice, or maybe two,” and launches into it.

He’s not honestly expecting Eskel to join in. Eskel’s _not_ a performer at heart, he likes _not_ being the center of attention, and Jaskier wouldn’t have pressed him to join the chorus if Ciri hadn’t pretty much won the argument for him already. He certainly wouldn’t ask Eskel to sing _now_ , just him with no other Witchers to join in. But he does, low and sweet and a little hesitant, voice a warm complement to Jaskier’s own. Arel sits on his own stool and watches them both with enormous eyes, and Geralt stares at Eskel in something rather approaching awe.

“Beautiful,” Arel breathes when the song winds to its end. “Truly, you are a master of your profession, bard Jaskier.”

Jaskier bows as best he can from his seat. “You flatter me beyond words, my friend, for the compliment of a master of his craft is always treasured.”

And Geralt, dear ridiculous man, says, “How much for the lute, mastercraftsman?”

Arel looks up at Geralt incredulously. “I could not charge the _White Wolf_ -”

“Can and will,” Geralt says shortly. “How much?”

Arel glances at Eskel and Jaskier helplessly. Eskel shrugs. Jaskier chuckles.

“He’s like that,” he says, patting the elf on the shoulder. “And _I_ know what a lute like that is truly worth, so don’t bother naming too low a price.”

Still looking utterly baffled, Arel says, “Five...five hundred orens?”

“Fair, if a little low,” Jaskier allows.

“Done,” Geralt says calmly, lifts the purse from his belt, and presses it into Arel’s hands. Eskel unhooks the beautiful lute and lifts it down.

“You do know I don’t need a new lute,” Jaskier says, accepting it with reverent hands. Geralt shrugs. Eskel grins.

“Ought to have a lute worthy of the Warlord’s Consort,” he says mildly. “It’s almost as pretty as you are, after all.”

Jaskier can feel his ears going red, and for a wonder, he can’t find any words at all.

*

Dinner that night is informal again, and Jaskier finds a mossy spot beneath a tree and watches the elves dance, lightfooted patterns far too complicated for him to master even if he was entirely sober, which, thanks to the very good elven wine, he is not. Several of the Witchers _are_ , and Jaskier has to confess he’s entirely delighted to see Aubry drawn into the dance by a laughing elven woman, Ealdred and Yen following a pair of elven men through the patterns, Merten apparently demonstrating a dwarven dance to a small crowd of interested elves.

Geralt is not dancing, which Jaskier could have predicted. He _is_ a little surprised that Geralt has chosen to sprawl out with his head in Jaskier’s lap; the White Wolf is not usually so relaxed anywhere outside of his own rooms. It probably helps that Ciri is dozing on Geralt’s chest, one of Geralt’s broad hands spread across her back to keep her from slipping, and Eskel is sitting beside Jaskier, quiet and contented but watchful nonetheless.

Jaskier combs his fingers gently through Geralt’s hair - soft as silk, it always surprises him how soft it is - and rests his head on Eskel’s shoulder, and watches the dancers whirl and leap and spin. It’s beautiful. He could happily stay here forever, in this long summer evening, so warm and joyful and peaceful it feels like the best sort of dream.

*

They take their leave late the next morning, and Jaskier is deeply pleased to see that Filavandrel seems far friendlier now than he was when they arrived, and that the elves seem one and all delighted by the Witchers, unafraid and unawed. Several of them, to Jaskier’s vast delight, sing snatches of the chorus of the song he and the Witchers performed at the ceremony.

There will be more festivities, of course, but it’s really not workable to have the White Wolf and three-quarters of his council all gone from Kaer Morhen for more than a day or two, unless it’s absolutely vital. Most of the Witchers will be staying, since they can return to Kaer Morhen at a far faster pace than could be managed with humans along, and will enjoy the chance to stretch their legs, but Geralt and Eskel, Jaskier and Ciri, Lambert and Milena and Yen - and Aubry, who apparently isn’t much for festivals - all file through the portal Yen opens and into the familiar coolth of Kaer Morhen, leaving the bright summer sun and the laughing elves behind.

The last month of travel has been lovely, and the festival overwhelming and joyful, but oh, Jaskier thinks as all the tension drains from his shoulders, it’s good to be _home_.

Vesemir is waiting for them, and looks them all over with an appraising eye and an approving nod. “Good to have you back,” he says gruffly.

“Good to _be_ back, honestly,” Jaskier says. “Fuck, I want to spend about five hours in the hot springs - that bath was lovely, Yen, but I need a proper soak!”

Yen laughs at him. Geralt hums. “Later,” he promises, and Jaskier sighs.

“There’s a whole stack of diplomatic bullshit waiting for me, isn’t there,” he asks Vesemir wearily. Vesemir nods. Jaskier scrubs a hand over his face. “Ah well. Duty calls, I suppose.”

Thankfully, there isn’t _that_ much paperwork waiting for him, though Eskel has a large pile, so Jaskier takes some of Eskel’s and looks through that, too, in the interests of getting both of them down to the hot springs as soon as possible.

They’re done with the reports by midafternoon, and Jaskier herds Geralt and Eskel down to the bathing room as soon as the last parchment has been set aside. They don’t take much herding, to be fair, and once they’re in the hot springs and Jaskier and Eskel have scrubbed the memories of road dust from their skin, Jaskier looks thoughtfully at his companions for a long moment, and then sits down on Geralt’s lap and drapes his legs over Eskel’s.

Geralt huffs a quiet laugh and loops an arm around Jaskier’s waist, warm and comforting, and Eskel nudges his shoulder against Geralt’s and wraps a hand around Jaskier’s ankle, and Jaskier rests his head on Geralt’s shoulder and closes his eyes and just _basks_. _Fuck_ , but he’s missed this: the quiet companionship, the intimacy of the baths, _Geralt_ , who is nuzzling his hair and humming softly in contentment.

“Missed you,” Jaskier murmurs.

“And I you, little lark,” Geralt replies softly. Jaskier feels even warmer than the water lapping gently against his skin can explain.

Several dozen other Witchers slide into the water over the course of the next blissfully peaceful hour, each staying a few minutes - long enough to greet Eskel and Jaskier - and going off to the truly hot springs again. It feels very much like a wolf pack welcoming their wandering packmates home, coming up to show their throats and wag their tails, and Jaskier grins at all of them and feels immensely _loved_ , and also very grateful that none of them say anything about the fact that Jaskier and Geralt and Eskel are, unmistakably, cuddling. This - this whatever they’re going to have with Eskel is still too new and fragile for scrutiny, and Jaskier doesn’t want it to break before it starts, but no one seems to bat an eye at Geralt’s arm around Eskel’s shoulders, Eskel’s hand on Jaskier’s leg.

Supper is lovely - elven food is delicious, but Jaskier does enjoy knowing what he’s eating, and good plain _roast_ meat is nice after a month of stew and fire-seared rabbit, not to mention the fresh bread and the roast vegetables and the chance to sit tucked up against Geralt in their double-wide chair with Geralt’s arm around his waist and one leg hooked around Eskel’s under the table.

After supper, Jaskier sings, because of course he does, and his new lute plays so beautifully it almost makes him weep. He sings the new songs he wrote over the last month - those that are ready, anyhow - _Cirilla’s Star_ and _Sunlit Lover_ and a rather silly piece about a hapless traveler who forgets something different every time he leaves his house, and he ends on _Ode to Witchers_ , and the Witchers of Kaer Morhen bellow the chorus along with him and cheer until the high ceiling rings with it.

_Fuck_ , but it’s good to be home.


	8. Chapter 8

Eskel isn’t entirely sure what to expect when he follows Geralt and Jaskier into Geralt’s rooms. He’s shared a bed with Geralt before, but that was decades ago; Geralt has, presumably, at the very least learned a bit more since then. And he’s shared a bed with _Jaskier_ , in the completely literal sense, and learned that Jaskier is an extremely cuddly bedmate, but that’s neither here nor there, really, as long as they’re all _awake_.

If Jaskier wasn’t holding his hand, long lute-callused fingers wound around his, Eskel might actually have found some excuse to retreat. Silent loyalty is what he knows how to give; he’s never really thought Geralt might _want_ more than that. And he’s certainly never dreamed Geralt would share his _lark_ , not when every Witcher in the keep knows how much Geralt _adores_ Jaskier, how devoted Jaskier is in turn.

But they’re not lying when they say they want him, Eskel can tell that much; could taste it, in those astonishing kisses.

Jaskier lets go of his hand when they reach Geralt’s rooms, unslinging his lute and propping it up on a stand near the hearth, and Geralt closes the door and reaches out to cup both hands around Eskel’s face, huge and rough and warm, and draw him into a kiss. It’s slow and soft and sweet, and Eskel’s eyes fall closed with the pleasure of it, and he wraps his hands around Geralt’s hips and hangs on for dear life. He’s never even dared to _dream_ of this, not since they went out on the Path, not since they _stopped_. Now he has it, and it’s - overwhelming. Astonishing. Painfully, gloriously amazing.

Geralt pulls away when they’re both starting to breathe a little harder, and rests his forehead against Eskel’s. Eskel just breathes for a moment, savoring the _smell_ of it, love and lust and contentment all intermingled. When he opens his eyes, Geralt is smiling, that tiny sweet smile that Eskel has always loved so much. “Wolf,” he murmurs, and Geralt hums agreement.

Gods, just this, and Eskel could be content for all his days.

He smiles back into Geralt’s eyes, helplessly happy, and then realizes that he hasn’t even thought to see if Jaskier is - is _alright_ with this, with Geralt kissing someone else in front of him -

Jaskier is entirely naked, and _clearly_ enjoying the view.

Fuck, but he’s lovely. Eskel licks his lips. “I think,” he murmurs, “we’re neglecting our lark.”

Jaskier squeaks and flushes, and his scent spikes lust even more vividly than before. Oh, he _likes_ that. Geralt chuckles, not pulling away from Eskel at all.

“I promise I am not feeling even a little neglected,” Jaskier says, sounding rather hoarse.

Eskel swallows. “Before,” he says slowly, “before we...tumble into bed. Which I do plan to do. That conversation we’ve been putting off.”

Jaskier nods and leans back against the bed, utterly unphased by his nudity. Geralt hums and loops his arms around Eskel’s waist, leaning his chin on Eskel’s shoulder. “Alright,” Jaskier says. “Well, since of the three of us I’m the one who talks most easily, let me lay out what _I_ think is going on, and you can correct me if I get anything wrong.”

“Sensible,” Geralt rumbles. Eskel nods.

“Right,” Jaskier says. “So. You two love each other. Have for...longer than I’ve been alive. Yeah?”

“Yes,” Geralt says. Eskel nods again, leaning back against Geralt’s chest just to feel the sturdiness of him, the endless patient strength.

“And I know _you_ said, Geralt, that you didn’t do anything about it because _Eskel_ never asked, and I’m willing to lay good money Eskel never said anything because _you_ didn’t ask - am I close?”

Eskel doesn’t gape, but it’s a near thing. He turns his head to look incredulously at Geralt. “You mean we were _both_ just...waiting?”

“Hm,” Geralt says, wryly amused. “Sounds about right.”

Eskel snorts. “Because gods forbid Witchers actually talk about _emotions_ ,” he sighs, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back against Geralt’s shoulder. “Fuck.”

“ _Witchers_ ,” Jaskier says, tone so full of fond exasperation that Geralt chuckles. “So now you know. And I know Geralt adores me -” Geralt hums agreement - “and I’m pretty sure _Eskel_ is at least very fond of me -”

“Extremely fond,” Eskel puts in. He’d kill or die for Jaskier, he’ll protect him against any danger, and he _definitely_ enjoys his company, finds him attractive, and likes holding him at night, so...if it’s not love, it’s as close as makes no nevermind.

“And I am pretty sure I’ve been very clear about how much I love _Geralt_ , but also, since I don’t think I ever said this out loud: I adore you, Eskel, you are dearer to me than anyone else in the world except Geralt.”

Eskel doesn’t squeak. He _does_ slam his eyes open to stare in shock at the bard. Jaskier shrugs. “And maybe Ciri, but that’s a different problem,” he adds. “We’d all three of us die for Ciri, if it came to that.”

“Quite,” Eskel agrees, knowing he sounds a little strangled. He’s still trying to deal with _dearer to me than anyone else in the world except Geralt_. It may take him a while.

“So back before I agreed to be Geralt’s consort, we talked about taking other people to bed,” Jaskier says, which startles Eskel right out of his bafflement. “And we agreed, nobody in _our_ bed unless we both wanted them. Which, obviously, we do. Hence,” he waves a hand, somehow managing to encompass the bedroom itself, the wide inviting bed, Geralt wound around Eskel in a comforting sort of bear hug, his own nudity. “I guess from here it’s up to you how...how _often_ , I suppose, you’d like to be here with us. What you want your place in this to be. Because I’m pretty sure neither Geralt nor I will ever turn you down.”

“Never,” Geralt confirms, in a low growl that goes straight to Eskel’s prick.

Eskel blinks at Jaskier for a moment, and considers. Neither Geralt nor Jaskier makes any attempt to rush him; Geralt is smelling like contentment so strongly it’s almost intoxicating, just from being tucked up behind Eskel with his chin on his shoulder, and Jaskier smells like lust and love and happiness and is smiling at the two of them without any worry at all. “My place is always at your side,” he says at last. “Maybe not... _always_ in your bed. You’d wear me out.”

Geralt huffs a laugh, breath warm against the side of Eskel’s throat. “Hm,” he says. “Make it simple. You are always welcome. Always ours. Come to our bed when you want to. Don’t when you don’t. Still ours.”

Eskel feels...a bit like the time a rock troll fell on him. _Flattened_. Like he can’t quite draw in a full breath. But in a good way.

“What Geralt said,” Jaskier agrees.

“Alright,” Eskel says - croaks, really, his throat feeling oddly dry. “Always yours. And tonight I _would_ like to share a bed with you.”

“Oh good,” Jaskier says, grinning. “You should kiss again.”

“Want to watch, little lark?” Geralt inquires softly. Eskel turns his head, and Geralt shifts a little, and their lips meet again, slow and soft and easy, a question asked and answered: _Yes? Yes._

Jaskier sways a little and catches himself on the bedpost, pupils blowing even wider, scent so strong Eskel suspects anyone passing in the corridor will be able to smell how aroused their lark is. “I really do object to the fact that you’re so damn good at rendering me speechless with lust.”

“Not terribly speechless,” Eskel observes, very amused. “Does he talk the whole time, Wolf?”

“Hm,” Geralt confirms, lips tilting up in a very smug smile. “Sometimes he sings.”

Eskel _laughs_ , all the tension draining from him in a great echoing guffaw that rings from the stone walls. “Of _course_ he does. Well, lark? _Do_ you want to watch?” The idea isn’t abhorrent - rather the contrary. Jaskier watching them, smelling like _that_ , maybe taking himself in hand as he watches...yes, Eskel would be fine with that. Rather more than fine.

“Yes, actually,” Jaskier says, and scrambles onto the bed and up to the headboard, fluffing the pillows into a mound and lounging onto them, decadent and languid and _lovely_. Eskel watches hungrily, hearing Geralt’s soft, ravenous growl beside him. Eskel has seen Jaskier naked in the hot springs, has seen him glowing with the joy of a successful performance and shining with viciously vengeful glee and laughing as he dances, but he is lovelier than ever like this, nude and aroused and unashamed, displaying himself for his lovers.

“Shall we give our lark a show, then?” Eskel murmurs, and Geralt’s growl gets louder, low and dangerous. Eskel _remembers_ that sound, deep back in the darkest parts of his mind, the places he doesn’t look unless he must - the places he _can_ look, now, knowing he hasn’t truly lost what he thought he had: it’s the sound that used to precede the really _good_ nights, the ones where it was just the two of them and the quiet darkness of the dormitory room and the freedom to spend the whole damn night naked in each other’s arms.

“Get your clothes off already,” Geralt orders, letting go of Eskel, and Eskel laughs with sheer delight, stripping as fast as he can. Geralt shucks his own clothing just as quickly, and Eskel takes a moment to enjoy the permission to really _look_ , not for new injuries, not for weaknesses while sparring, but just - _gods_ , but Geralt is a handsome man, broad-shouldered and dangerous, his scars adornments. And he is looking at Eskel as though he’s thinking the exact same thing, something ravenous in his eyes.

Jaskier makes a noise Eskel can’t even describe, and Eskel grins. “Huh. I didn’t think our lark could smell any hornier than he did.”

Geralt smirks. “Hm. Gets even better if you kiss him.” He tilts his head, not an order but a suggestion, and Eskel smirks in response.

“I feel that this is a line of experimentation that should - ah -” Jaskier breaks off as Eskel prowls up the bed towards him, grinning like the wolf he is. “That should definitely be encouraged,” Jaskier squeaks, and then Eskel reaches him and puts one hand on his chest to pin him in place, and kisses him.

_Gods_ , but he’s sweet to kiss. Eskel keeps the kiss slow and sweet and careful, coaxing, _asking_ , and Jaskier melts against the pillows with a long low moan of pleasure, going utterly lax beneath Eskel’s hand and lips. It’s _addictively_ good. He can’t help chuckling as he leans back, just a hair, to let Jaskier catch his breath. “Catmint,” he murmurs.

Jaskier blinks his eyes open and crooks an eyebrow. “You’ve said that before. What do you mean?”

Eskel sits back on his heels, and only then realizes that Geralt has crowded up behind him. Fuck, his situational awareness is usually a _lot_ better than this - but then again, he defies _anyone_ to pay proper attention to anything else with Jaskier moaning and smelling _so damn good_ beneath them. Geralt loops an arm around Eskel’s waist, heavy and warm, and nuzzles against his throat. Eskel’s breath catches. He lets his head fall back against Geralt’s shoulder, baring his throat, and Jaskier makes a raw hungry noise. Geralt growls, low and pleased, and starts to bite a line of soft kisses down the line of Eskel’s bared throat. It’s so _good_. He hasn’t really dared _relax_ like this in bed with anyone, let them do as they pleased with him in perfect trust, since - well, since before the Path.

“Beauty and courage and talent,” Eskel rasps, closing his eyes and sagging back against Geralt. “Witcher catmint.”

“That may be the sweetest compliment I’ve ever gotten,” Jaskier says, though Eskel can’t quite focus on the words, not when Geralt’s _other_ hand has slid between his legs and is cupped softly around his balls. “Incidentally, the two of you are so lovely together that it’s genuinely startling -” Geralt’s thumb presses gently against a spot that Eskel had all but forgotten about, just below his balls, and Eskel moans, shocked and half-desperate. “Gods, Geralt, I don’t know what you just did, but do it again.” Geralt breathes a tiny huff of laughter against Eskel’s throat and _does_ do it again, another shock of pleasure shivering up Eskel’s spine. Geralt hums, smugly pleased with himself.

“Change of plans,” Jaskier says hoarsely. “What say we both do our damnedest to see if we can get Eskel screaming in ecstasy, my wolf?”

“Good plan,” Geralt rumbles.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Eskel breathes. He’s already halfway to desperate, just from _this_ , just from Geralt’s warm strength behind him and the scent of Jaskier’s lust hanging rich and vivid in the air, just from the memory of the taste of Jaskier’s mouth and the press of Geralt’s lips against his throat. More than this - he’s not sure how much more he can _bear_.

As much as they need him to. Always.

Jaskier’s hands are smaller than Geralt’s, softer despite the lute calluses, and he touches Eskel like Eskel is something rare and precious and breakable, tracing each scar delicately, scratching his nails softly through the hair on Eskel’s chest and making soft pleased noises when Eskel shivers and gasps. Geralt lets him explore for a while, contents himself with holding Eskel up, brushing those soft sharp kisses against his throat and running his free hand up the line of Eskel’s spine, but then he decides to show Jaskier what he recalls from those long-ago days when he and Eskel shared their bed.

He clearly remembers a _lot_.

He gives Jaskier instructions in a soft, almost coaxing tone, and Jaskier follows them _distressingly_ well: his mouth on Eskel’s chest, tongue flirting delicately with his nipples; gentle bites along his ribs, the barest hint of teeth making Eskel’s breath catch; soft kisses on his throat, mirroring Geralt’s, Jaskier pressed up against him so Eskel is _surrounded_ by them, warm skin and lust-smell and wicked gentle mouths. And then Jaskier pulls away and there’s a brief, fraught silence and then Jaskier’s clever, clever mouth closes over the tip of Eskel’s prick, tongue lapping eagerly at it. Eskel makes a ragged noise and grabs at Geralt’s hand and arm, lacing their fingers together and wrapping his other hand around Geralt’s forearm so tightly his knuckles hurt. Geralt nuzzles at his throat and rumbles a pleased noise into the warm air.

“Your fucking _mouth_ , lark,” Eskel rasps. Hot and wet and so _fucking_ good -

“He _is_ good with it,” Geralt murmurs, sounding very smug indeed. “Go on, little lark.”

Jaskier makes a muffled eager noise and sinks down, and Eskel gasps and shudders with the effort of holding still, of not thrusting into that glorious heat. Oh fucking _gods_ , this - this is -

Geralt murmurs, too low for human ears, “Look at our lark.”

Eskel pries his eyes open and looks down. Oh _fuck_ , Jaskier sprawled out on his front, propped up on one elbow, other hand stuffed down between his own legs as he shifts desperately against the quilt, his pretty pretty mouth stretched wide around Eskel’s prick, his eyes half-shut in concentration and pleasure - ye gods, what a picture. This is going to haunt Eskel’s dreams for _years_.

Geralt hums softly. “Eskel. What do you want?”

Eskel licks his lips, trying very hard to muster enough coherence to make some sort of _choice_. Jaskier, the vicious little thing, doesn’t help at all: he pulls away just far enough that he can start licking, little teasing flicks of his tongue, all up and down Eskel’s prick. Eskel growls helplessly; Geralt echoes him. Jaskier shivers and grins up at them both.

Very carefully, Eskel frees his hand from its tight grip on Geralt’s and traces a finger down Jaskier’s cheek. He _wants_. He is _allowed_ to want. This is not a dream.

“I want to come in that pretty mouth,” he murmurs, and Geralt hums pleasure behind him. “And then I want to fuck our lark while you fuck _me_ , Wolf.”

Jaskier gasps, “Yes, _please_.”

“Yes,” Geralt rumbles, and laces his free hand through Jaskier’s hair, coaxing him forward again. It doesn’t seem to take much coaxing. Jaskier swallows Eskel down eagerly, moaning at the taste, and Eskel hears himself make a ragged noise. He shudders, restraining the urge to thrust - not polite, and _humans_ have gag reflexes, and he’s large enough that that _can_ be a problem - he doesn’t want to hurt their lark’s throat - doesn’t ever want to hurt their lark -

Geralt shifts until he’s pressed up against Eskel’s back properly, one long line of heat from ass to shoulders, and his prick rides against the cleft of Eskel’s ass as he shifts his hips. Oh _gods_. Eskel grabs at the sheets and makes a hoarse noise and comes, hard, without being able to give any warning at all.

Jaskier swallows as best he can, but when he sits up on his knees, his face is streaked with Eskel’s spend. Eskel can’t help lunging forward, kissing that pretty mouth, wanting to taste the sweet moans rising from Jaskier’s throat, and Geralt shifts around until he can help lick Jaskier clean, trading sticky messy kisses with Eskel, all three of them trying to kiss each other at once, and it maybe shouldn’t work but it _does_.

“Someone,” Jaskier pants, “should definitely grab the oil.”

Geralt hums and rolls away to paw through the nightstand. Eskel takes this golden opportunity to drape himself over Jaskier and kiss him breathless. Jaskier kisses back eagerly, and reaches up to stroke his fingers through Eskel’s hair. Eskel finds himself growling with pleasure, a low rumbling sound that makes Jaskier gasp and writhe beneath him.

Geralt returns with the oil, and Eskel spreads his legs as wide as he can so Geralt can kneel between them. Jaskier winds his own legs around Eskel’s waist, and the movement rubs their pricks together in a long slick slide that makes Jaskier moan and Eskel snarl. He really should pull away to prepare Jaskier -

Jaskier wails even as a blunt, slick finger slides over Eskel’s entrance, and Eskel shudders. Jaskier laughs breathlessly. “Our wolf has - has two hands,” he observes, and Eskel drops his head to the crook of Jaskier’s neck and _moans_ as the first finger slides into him. Oh _fuck_ , it’s been too long, but he remembers this.

“Our Wolf is far, far too clever sometimes,” he rasps, and that finger _twists_ , and another nudges against his ass. “Fuck, Wolf, go slow, it’s been a while.”

Geralt makes a soft sound of apology and bends to brush a line of kisses down Eskel’s spine. Eskel sighs against Jaskier’s shoulder and reminds himself to _relax_. He wants this. _Gods_ does he want this.

“Do I want to know how long ‘a while’ is?” Jaskier asks, brushing a kiss against Eskel’s scarred cheek.

“You really don’t,” Eskel admits rather ruefully. ‘A while’ is probably longer than Jaskier has been _alive_. His own hand has sufficed him for a long, long time.

“Not asking,” Jaskier promises, and catches Eskel’s mouth in another kiss to distract them both from that particular line of thought. Eskel does his best to kiss Jaskier breathless, coaxing sweet wordless moans from that pretty mouth, sounds as musical as his singing.

“I am _definitely_ going to write a song about this,” Jaskier says when Eskel pulls away just far enough to bite a line of kisses down his throat, both of them moaning as Geralt works his way slowly up to three fingers, his fingertips glancing over that golden spot with every twisting thrust. Eskel fists his hands in the quilt and _shudders_ , gasping, against Jaskier’s shoulder. So _fucking_ good. “It’s - ah, _fuck_ \- not going to be printable in _any_ kingdom -” Eskel bites down on the vulnerable curve of Jaskier’s throat, and Jaskier _shouts_. “ _Fuck_ , Eskel, right there - _one wolf is good, but two are better / rain or sun or any weather -_ ”

Eskel can’t help laughing, helpless and delighted. “You know, Wolf, I didn’t quite believe you. He really _does_ sing.”

Geralt hums agreement and twists his fingers. Jaskier yelps, high and shocked; Eskel moans. This is - fuck, this is _overwhelming_ , is what it is.

“Fuck, Geralt, Eskel, I’m ready, _please_ ,” Jaskier babbles. Eskel grazes his teeth against Jaskier’s throat, relishes the whine and shiver he elicits.

“Please,” he echoes. “Come on, Wolf, I’ve _missed_ you.”

“Fuck,” Geralt says, almost conversationally, and pulls his hands away.

There’s a rather awkward moment full of tangled legs and too many hands, and then Eskel is kneeling up between Jaskier’s wide-sprawled legs, with Geralt behind him again, one broad arm around his waist, prick like a bar of hot iron against Eskel’s ass. It’s - Eskel can’t quite believe this is _real_ , this moment, these men, this - this _love_.

“Eskel,” Jaskier says, reaching up to touch his cheek. “Our bedrock, our firm foundation. Darling, _beloved_ Eskel.”

Eskel shudders, the words hitting like _Aard_ , breaking something in his chest wide open.

“My right hand,” Geralt rumbles. “My voice. _Mine_ , always.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Eskel breathes, and it feels like - it feels like they’ve torn his chest painlessly open and laid their hands on his _heart_ , feels like some ancient injury he didn’t even know was _there_ has started to heal, like he’s been underwater for decades and has finally found air again.

“Yes, please,” Jaskier grins, and Eskel _laughs_ , full-throated and joyful.

“As our lark desires,” he says, and reaches down to guide his prick into Jaskier. Geralt chuckles and reaches down to press the head of _his_ prick against Eskel’s entrance, and Eskel makes a hoarse desperate sound - one he’d never let _anyone_ else hear - and falls forward onto his hands and knees, and Geralt slides into him as he slides into Jaskier, and _oh fucking gods be kind_ , it’s so good.

He and Geralt move together as easily as they do when they are sparring - as easily as they did decades ago, before the Path - and beneath Eskel, Jaskier moans and gasps and _sings_ , filling the room with the sounds of his pleasure, and above him, Geralt growls and bites at Eskel’s shoulders, leaving stinging marks that will fade by morning - that will _never_ fade in Eskel’s memory -

Fuck, but Geralt is better at this than he was back then, Eskel’s going to have to thank Jaskier for that -

Eskel comes with a moan that’s almost a sob, muffling the sound against Jaskier’s throat, and Jaskier winds his arms around Eskel’s shoulders, and Geralt leans down to cover him, a warm weight against his back, and Eskel twists around until he can catch Geralt’s mouth with his own, a sloppy inelegant kiss that’s so sweet it hurts, and it’s -

It’s so fucking _good_ , here between them, home at last.

*

Eskel wakes up somewhere well past midnight, and lies there blinking into the darkness and wondering what woke him until he realizes that one of the logs in the hearth broke and shifted, spilling a little more light across the room. He hasn’t slept indoors in long enough - well, indoors in Kaer Morhen, the thick stone walls keeping all outside sounds at bay - that the faint sound and shift in dimness were enough to rouse him.

He’s half-curled around Geralt, nose tucked against the nape of the White Wolf’s neck, surrounded utterly in the smells of sex and happiness and warm-honey _love_. Jaskier is curled in Geralt’s arms, one hand resting on Geralt’s chest and the other thrown over Geralt’s waist to brush against Eskel’s hip, legs tangled with Geralt’s, slow breathing a soothingly familiar rhythm after the last month on the road.

Eskel thinks he may have worked out what, precisely, he prefers. Perhaps he _is_ , truly, the White Wolf’s shadow, because it turns out that what Eskel really, truly wants is the White Wolf’s golden eyes upon him, piercingly sweet, _seeing_ him and his devotion for what they truly are, and the White Wolf’s lark to sing for him, and this space in their bed, in their hearts, set aside for him to fill. To be wanted. To be _loved_.

Geralt makes a soft, sleepy noise and reaches back to lace his fingers through Eskel’s, pulling their joined hands around to rest on his chest, tucked into the curve of Jaskier’s fingers. _The White Wolf’s right hand. Our bedrock, our foundation. Beloved_. Eskel presses a kiss against the nape of Geralt’s neck and curls a little closer, closing his eyes, and basks in the smell of warm honey and the steady, endless heartbeats of his loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the end of the series! There will be a one-shot from Vesemir's POV going up on Wednesday, and then probably some short fic that is not part of this series while I finish writing the next multi-chapter installment.
> 
> Thank you all for the comments and kudos; I cannot tell you how much they mean to me. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Twirl Three Notes and Make a Star](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24177466) by [AceOfTigers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceOfTigers/pseuds/AceOfTigers)
  * [I dream (an old, forgotten, far-off dream)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25995106) by [Lordwhatfoolsthismortalsbe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lordwhatfoolsthismortalsbe/pseuds/Lordwhatfoolsthismortalsbe)
  * [The Advantage of Being Able to Walk Invisible](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26193232) by [AnythingEver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnythingEver/pseuds/AnythingEver)
  * [The Ravens and The Swans](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28198236) by [HastaLux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HastaLux/pseuds/HastaLux)




End file.
